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  "Tossing her aside? But they're not together. Damien told me they haven't been together since they were kids."

  "When has the truth ever bothered the press? Every time they're photographed together, the London papers practically have them engaged. It'll be more interesting this time around, now that you're in the picture."

  "Interesting isn't the word I'd choose," I say dryly.

  "If you can't make them stop, at least let them entertain you," she says. And I have to admit, that's probably good advice.

  "Speaking of speculation," she continues, "the rumors are also flying that I'm returning to agenting."

  "Are you?"

  "Fuck no," she says, with a sound that is somewhere between a guffaw and a snort. "But my old firm's been doing the full-court press, trying to get me back behind a phone and a desk. And you know what? Who knows. Maybe if they sweeten the pot enough I'll reconsider. Right now I'm just amusing myself watching them run around talking up potential projects. Like yours," she adds with a wicked grin.

  "Mine? My what?"

  "Take your pick, Texas. There are producers salivating to get you on reality TV. And there are at least half a dozen companies looking to hire you to do product endorsements. Want to be the face of a makeup line? I could arrange it like that," she says with a saucy snap of her fingers.

  I just shake my head. "This is the weirdest city."

  Evelyn snorts. "Hell, yes it is."

  "If they're just looking for a face, tell them to look at Jamie's. I look better in real life than I do on film, but Jamie was made for the camera."

  "Good point there, Texas." I'm joking, but I'm not entirely sure Evelyn realizes that.

  I'm still buzzing from sugar and conversation when Evelyn heads back to Malibu and I return to my office. I study the portfolio of Blaine's work that she left with me and make a few notes for the app she wants me to design. I want it to stand out--to have more functionality than simply as a portable display case--and I am so engrossed in brainstorming that I don't realize the time until the intercom buzzes and the receptionist tells me that a Ms. Reynard is in the lobby.

  "Oh, right. Send her on back." I remain seated when she comes in--I'm the boss, after all--and greet her with my Professional Nikki smile. Another perk of my horrific childhood--I am well-versed at hiding my emotions under a variety of tried and true pageant-quality smiles. So I am confident that Giselle has no idea that I'm still wary--or that tiny seeds of jealousy remain buried just below the surface, ready to sprout if she says the wrong thing or looks at Damien with the slightest hint of attraction.

  The truth is, I don't want to be wary or jealous. I don't like that girl, and I don't want to be that girl. But I can't flush from my mind the simple truth that she did date Damien--and that where Damien is concerned, "date" most likely means "screwed."

  "Nikki!" she chirps as she comes through my door, and I have to force myself to up the wattage on my smile. Giselle reminds me of Audrey Hepburn--her hair, her frame, her poise. I do not usually get intimidated around other women, but around Giselle, I feel off my game, and I can't help but think that this is a huge mistake.

  If she notices my hesitation, she's kind enough not to say anything. Instead, she focuses on the space, her eyes roving over the empty walls and the furniture before landing back on me. "It's a great space," she says. "Small, but airy and well laid out. This beige on the walls is hideous, so that's the first thing we'll want to change. Then we'll want to hang some art. Not too much. Probably one large piece to anchor the room, and then a few smaller pieces to provide some balance. I have some artists in mind--I'll bring a portfolio by the next time I come. And some paint chips, too. Something professional, but bright. Maybe a pale yellow," she adds, almost to herself.

  I glance around, trying to imagine the walls in yellow. I have to admit, it might look nice.

  She seems to realize she's gone into the zone, and aims a ten-thousand megawatt smile in my direction. "Thanks again for letting me do this."

  "Sure," I say. "I have to be honest. The rent on this place isn't bad, but it's more than I planned to spend my first year out of the gate. I don't know that I can justify a decorating expense, too."

  She drops gracefully into one of the molded plastic guest chairs. "No, no. You misunderstand me. This is my treat. Well, for the first year. Then if you want to keep the canvases, you can either buy them or we can discuss a lease. As for the painting, this place is a shoebox--no offense--and I'm sure I already have the perfect color in storage."

  I tilt my head, trying to process this. "Giselle, I know that you didn't mean to upset me when you told Bruce about the portrait. If you owe me anything, it's an apology, and you've already done that." I don't mention Damien or my little stabs of jealousy. Other than having a history with him, she's done nothing to incite the little green monster.

  "I appreciate that, I really do. But I want to do this. I know how much all the press bothered you, and I can't help but think that maybe that's my doing, too."

  I sit up straighter. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, I obviously wasn't thinking. What if Bruce said something? What if I told someone else and just don't remember? What if someone overheard us talking?"

  Her words echo my earlier thoughts. "Even if that's what happened, it's blown over. And, honestly, Giselle, I don't want to stick my nose into your business, but can you really afford to work for free?"

  For the first time her expression loses some of the long-lost-girlfriend cheerfulness, and I know that I have hit a nerve. What I'm not sure is if I've crossed a line. I'm about to apologize and tell her that it's none of my business and if she wants to work for free, then more power to her, but she continues before I have the chance to speak.

  "The truth is that I can't afford to make ends meet with just the gallery. I know that Damien and Evelyn aren't gossiping about me, but at the same time, people talk, so I'm sure you've heard that my divorce is not, well, pleasant."

  She pauses, and I smile and murmur the appropriate condolences.

  "Be careful of men," she says darkly. "Fuck them, but don't trust them. Not any of them." She looks hard at me. "That's a lesson I should have learned before I married Bruce. It sure as hell applied to the men in my life back then. All of them," she adds.

  "I couldn't live like that," I say coldly. I'm not sure if she's trying to be a bitch or do the girl-bonding thing, but I don't care. I don't want to think about the fact that she dated Damien, much less discuss it. And I sure as hell don't want to hear about why I shouldn't trust him.

  She exhales and slouches a bit so that she no longer looks like one of LA's beautiful people but like a harried commuter. "Sorry. I'm too bitter by half. The point is that I need to increase my cash flow, and so I'm ramping up my design work again. And I could use this--doing your office, I mean. I don't want to be crude, but having Damien Stark's girlfriend on my client list isn't going to hurt my business."

  Strangely, that makes me feel better. I don't particularly want to be friends with Giselle, and I'm relieved to realize that she isn't looking to be besties with me, either. Business is different, though, and if she wants to bling out my office so she can promote her talent, then as far as I'm concerned that's a win-win. Especially if she can do most of the work when I'm not actually in the office.

  "All right," I say. "I guess we have a deal."

  "Fabulous." Her bright smile has returned, banishing the look of defeat. "I'll pull some material together and give you a call. In the meantime," she adds as she rises to her feet, "be sure and give Damien a kiss for me."

  She sweeps out of my office, and I watch her go, bemused. After a moment, I shrug it off. If she's playing games, I'm not going to get drawn in. And if I'm imagining things--well, then I really need to get over it.

  I spend another hour making notes for Blaine's app, but then I can't take it anymore. The sun is setting outside my window, and I still haven't heard from Damien. I try his office, but Sylvia tells me that he's st
ill in meetings. "It's been a crazy day," she says. "Since he just got back, everyone wanted a piece of his time."

  I can't help but smile. I understand the feeling.

  "He should be done soon, though," she says. "Shall I have him call you?"

  I tell her not to bother, and then switch over to my messaging app to send him a text. To the CEO of Stark International from the CEO of Fairchild Development: Regarding my previous request for an appointment, does this evening fit on your calendar?

  I don't expect a quick reply and am surprised when my phone pings almost immediately. I think I can squeeze you in.

  I practically trip over my fingers typing the reply. I'll be right over.

  No. I will. I have plans for your new office . . .

  I smile in anticipation and wonder how I'll survive the time between now and when he arrives.

  Since I can't concentrate on work with the prospect of Damien's pending arrival hanging over my head, I abandon Evelyn's art app in favor of going through my emails and clearing them out. I make the mistake of opening the one my mother sent while I was in Munich. The one that tells me that I really should work on my personal skills, because ignoring her calls and emails is simply rude and not the way she raised me. I see that your current fling got away with murder, she writes. Hopefully that means you'll quit playing Florence Nightingale to his troubles. It's simply a waste of time, and there are any number of men who are equally as eligible. Honestly, Nichole, once you pass the ten million dollar mark, one man is essentially the same as any other. Think about what I've said. And call me. Kisses, Mother

  I want to delete it. Right at that moment, actually, I want to delete it even more than I want to breathe. I don't want that woman in my head. She may not have ever taken a knife to my flesh, but I know without any doubt that she bears as much responsibility for the scars on my hips and thighs as I do. I want to delete that email and prove to myself that I've moved on.

  I want to . . . but somehow I can't quite manage.

  Fuck.

  I slam the top down on my laptop, not bothering to close any of my programs.

  "Bad first day?"

  I look up to find Damien leaning against the door frame. He's dressed for the office in a tailored gray suit, white shirt, and a burgandy tie, and he looks for all the world like a long, tall drink of sin. "Not anymore," I say. "How did you get in?"

  "Apparently your receptionist reads the papers. She knows we're together."

  I lean back in my desk chair and eye him. "Are we?"

  He steps inside my office, then pulls my door shut behind him. He pauses, then very deliberately locks the door. "We are."

  "Well," I say as I feel the temperature rise between us. "That's very good to know."

  "You look very authoritative behind that desk, Ms. Fairchild," he says, then glances around the small office. "So this is where the magic happens?"

  I'm grinning. Whatever remnants of gloom remain from my mother's email have been firmly swept away. "It's pretty cool, isn't it?"

  "It's wonderful," he says. "I'm so proud of you. Tell me all about your first day."

  I give him the rundown on the lease and on Giselle. I can hear the lilt in my voice, the excitement from setting off on this new adventure. And I see my own happiness reflected in Damien's smile. "I even have my first client," I add, then tell him about Evelyn's app for Blaine.

  "You're amazing," he says.

  "It feels good. You were right," I add. "I took the plunge and it feels great."

  "I knew it would," he says, then lowers his voice to add, "I thought of you today." He strides toward me as he speaks. The room is small, and it doesn't take him long to cross to my desk. "I pictured you the way you were last night."

  "Oh." I swallow as the temperature in the room rises.

  "Then I pictured you like that here. Naked and bound and ready for me. Wanting me." He comes around the desk, his eyes never leaving my face. I feel my pulse beat in my neck, and I'm having a little trouble breathing.

  "I--oh. Yes."

  "It's intoxicating, you know."

  I squirm a bit in the desk chair. As far as I'm concerned, it's his voice that's intoxicating. "Um, what is?"

  His eyes dance with heat and humor as he leans forward and puts both his palms on my desktop. "Knowing that I can bring a powerful woman like you to her knees. A woman with her own company, her own empire. Knowing that I can make her wet with my words. That my voice can make her nipples peak and her clit tingle. That I can shove her skirt up and turn her over her very own desk and spank that perfect white ass until it glows and then, when the scent of her arousal covers the desk and fills the room, I can fuck her until she comes so hard she screams for mercy."

  "Oh, God, Damien . . . " My blood is pulsing, my body quivering.

  "Stand up, Nikki. Go over toward the window."

  Though I'm not entirely sure my legs will hold me up, I comply. He looks me up and down. The high-heeled red pumps, the tailored skirt, the silk shell under a light summer jacket.

  His eyes never leave mine as he sits in one of the guest chairs. "Take off the jacket."

  I do, tossing it over the arm of my chair behind the desk.

  "Now the skirt."

  There is a challenge in his voice, and I know that he expects me to protest. To tell him this is my office and that I have a receptionist just a few feet outside that door. I don't. This is exactly what I want, too, so I reach behind me, tug down the zipper, and let the skirt fall to the floor, revealing the red thong panties.

  He says nothing, but I can see the heat building in his eyes, and my body responds immediately, my sex quickening, my nipples getting tight and hard beneath the lace of my bra. "Well, Mr. Stark," I say as I slowly walk toward him. "What do you want from me now?"

  His answering smile is like a slow caress, and ripples of desire break through me like foam upon a sandy shore. "Stop," he says, when I am about five feet from him.

  I do, my heart pounding with anticipation.

  He lifts a finger and makes a spinning motion. I roll my eyes, but take a step forward, do a runway-style turn, and then repeat the process, effectively rotating a full three-hundred-sixty degrees for him. I put my hand on a cocked hip and tilt my head. "Like what you see?"

  "Oh, yes," he says. He leans back in the chair, his casual posture belied by the tension I see in his face and shoulders, and by the firm slant of his mouth. His gaze flicks over me, and I swallow, hyperaware of my body's reaction. Of how I react whenever I'm around this man. No wonder he always says that I glow. Damien is like a switch, and it is he who turns me on.

  The thong is wet against my sex, and the pressure makes me even more needy. It's not the thong I want touching me--it's Damien. He, however, remains resolutely still, his hands resting on the arms of that uncomfortable chair as he examines every inch of me, his gaze lingering at that tiny triangle of material.

  "Spread your legs--that's my girl. Now stay still for just a moment."

  My skin prickles, as if my body is anticipating his touch and is protesting that his hands aren't upon me and his cock isn't deep inside me. Then his eyes drift lower still. I don't move, even though I know what he is seeing. The scars. Not too long ago, I would have curled up on the floor and cried if someone looked at me so intently. Hell, that is exactly what I did when Damien did that very thing. Sometimes it amazes me how fast my world has changed with Damien in it. And not just my world, but me. He's my anchor. Something to hold on to as I dig deep inside myself to find a strength I never even knew existed.

  Somehow, though, Damien always knew that it was there. More, he trusted that I would find it, too.

  He has always seen so much. Not just the beauty queen. Not just the scars. He's seen all of me, and no matter whether I'm in panties and high heels or the most couture of evening gowns, I am always standing naked before him.

  Once upon a time, I would have found that thought terrifying. Now, I take comfort in it.

  But this is n
ot a moment for deep reflection, nor do I want to think about scars or strength or the battles that we have fought. All I want is Damien. And I want him right now.

  Boldly, I take a step toward him.

  "No," he says. "Stop."

  "Stop?"

  He arches a brow.

  I cock my head a bit to indicate I understand, then raise a brow. "Yes, sir."

  "Good girl. Now spread your legs, just a little. That's right," he says when I comply. "Stay like that."

  I am about two feet from him, and breathing hard. He is sitting in the chair, which puts him about eye level with the red swath of material that barely covers my sex.

  Slowly, he lifts his eyes. "There's something I want," he says.

  Shock waves cut through my body, because I want it, too. I want Damien inside me. I want his cock in my mouth, in my cunt. I want him to whisper to me, to make love with words in that extraordinary way that he has. I want him to fuck me so hard and so deep that I cry out from that singularly exquisite pleasure that is wrapped up in pain.

  Most of all, I want him to touch me.

  I start to take a step toward him, but he stops me with a single shake of his head. It is a miracle that I don't weep with frustration.

  "Not that," he says.

  I swallow, suddenly uncertain. "Then what?"

  "I want to watch."

  "Damien . . . " I have touched myself for him before, but not like this. Not like a show. I swallow, a little bit embarrassed, but undeniably excited, too.

  "Close your eyes," he orders.

  "Why?"

  "Because I said to."

  I close my eyes.

  "Good girl. Now take off your top. Do it slowly. Take the hem, and hold it as you trail your fingers up. That's it, just like that."

  I do as he says, trying to breathe steadily as I slowly peel the silk blouse off. It's not easy, and I feel my stomach twitch with my breath, with the intimate touch of my own fingers.

  "Imagine it's me," he says. "My hands easing your shirt off. My hands cupping your breasts, pulling the cup of your bra down so that you spill out over the top. That's it," he says, as I follow his lead and adjust the cups to expose my breasts and nipples. "Do you feel my touch? The way I'm tugging your nipples? The way I'm stroking my fingertip over your areolae?"