Release Me Page 8

  I yank on a tank top and hurry into the living room, not even willing to venture a guess as to who could be out there at this time of night.

  As it turns out, it's no one. Instead, it's a huge flower arrangement parked on the doorstep. A mass of wildflowers--daisies and sunflowers and Indian paintbrushes and other flowers I don't recognize. They are beautiful and cheerful and warm and wild.

  They are perfect.

  Damien, I think, and it feels like my whole body is smiling. It has to be Damien.

  Jamie bends down to snag the card and has it out of the envelope before I can reach her. I silently seethe until she looks up at me, a grin tugging at the side of her mouth.

  I hold out my hand for the card, which she hands over with a gleam in her eye.

  There is one word printed on it: Delicious. Beneath that are the initials D.S.

  And me, the girl who never blushes, does so for about the millionth time that night.

  Jamie picks up the arrangement, then carts it over to the dining table. I poke my head out the door, but there's no one there.

  "Just how good a time did you have at that party?" Jamie asks.

  "Not the party," I say, because we've reached the point where I either fill Jamie in or find a new best friend. "The ride home." I drop down onto the sofa that backs up to the wall separating the living area from the kitchen. I pull my feet up and tug my favorite purple afghan over me. I'm suddenly very tired. It's been a long and interesting day.

  "No, you don't," Jamie says, plonking down on the antique cherrywood coffee table I'd brought with me from Texas. That puts her right in front of me. She leans forward, getting even more in my face. "Don't even think of claiming you're sleepy. You can't drop a bombshell like that and not explain. The ride home? So, what? You guys went up and parked on Mulholland for some late night delight?"

  "He sent me home in a limo," I say bluntly, because I want to watch her reaction. "Alone."

  "You are such a liar. Seriously?" she adds when she sees my face.

  I nod, and then--damn me--I giggle. "It was one hell of a ride."

  "Oh. My. God." Her eyes are wide. "Okay, spill. And don't give me any of that bullshit about privacy or being discreet or a lady doesn't tell. You're not your mother. I want the dirt. All of it."

  I comply. Well, not all of it, but I share the high points, starting with our bizarrely cold introduction at Evelyn's and moving on to the testosterone-laden interchange between Stark and Ollie.

  "I haven't seen Ollie in ages," Jamie interrupts. "The little shit. Why hasn't he called?"

  She's not really interested in the answer, though, and urges me to keep going with my tale. I do. My exhaustion has faded along with my reticence. Jamie is my best friend, and it feels good to share, even if I do find myself mumbling and talking in euphemisms once I get to the part of the story that features me, my phone, Stark's commanding voice, and the backseat of a limo.

  "Holy fuck," she says when I finish. It's the third time she's said it during my rundown.

  "And I left the panties in the car," I add. I feel devilish admitting it, even more so when Jamie's eyes widen and she rocks with laughter.

  "Holy fuck," she repeats, this time with even more enthusiasm. "So he was really in a restaurant the whole time? God, he must have some serious blue balls."

  I experience a little trill of feminine satisfaction at the thought, then frown as another thought occurs to me. "How did he get flowers to me so fast? I was probably home less than ten minutes before they arrived." It's weird, the same way him already knowing my home address is odd.

  "Who cares?"

  It's a fair point, but I shift around on the couch so that I can see the kitchen table and the flowers. My smile blooms wide again.

  "You need to toss some condoms in your purse," Jamie says.

  "I what?"

  "I've got a box in the bathroom. Take a few. Phone sex is the only safe sex there is, girlfriend, and he may be hot, but you don't know where that boy's been." Her mouth twitches with suppressed laughter. "Or who he's been in."

  The thought is disturbing on multiple levels, not the least of which is the unpleasant twang I feel at the thought of Damien Stark in bed with another woman. I push that aside and focus on the practical. "I don't need condoms," I say, "because I'm not sleeping with him."

  "Nikki," she says, and even though she's my best friend, I can't tell if that's a plea in her voice or pity.

  "Don't start," I say. "I'm not you."

  "Which is good, as the world can only take so much awesomeness." She grins at me, but I'm not in the mood. After a moment, her grin fades and her shoulders drop a little. "Look, you know I love you, and I'll always be on your side, no matter what."

  "But?"

  "But think about why you came to Los Angeles."

  "I came for business." I say it because it's true. I want to learn from Carl. I want to find investors for the web-based app I've been developing. And then, once I'm confident I have the chops to actually run a business, I want to dive into the deep end of the pool.

  "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm talking about Damien Stark. You could do a lot worse than him if you're looking for a fresh start."

  I shake my head. That whole new life, new Nikki thing doesn't apply where getting naked with Damien Stark is concerned. "Not going there," I say firmly. "The limo was amazing, but it was on my terms. In person, all I'd be is a notch on his bedpost, and that's your gig, not mine."

  "Ha! Well, you nailed me. But the rest of it is total bullshit."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You don't want him putting his hands all over you, fine." I wince at the way she's zeroed in on my personal neurosis. "But own up to it, Nik. Because I wasn't even at that party and I can tell that he thinks of you as more than a piece of ass." She waves at the flowers. "Exhibit A."

  "So he's a polite bazillionaire. It's not like delivering flowers took more than a phone call. They probably came fast because he has a standing order for flower delivery after all his phone sex encounters." I'm being snarky, but as I speak I realize I'm probably right. The thought is not a happy one.

  "No way. He wants you. Your snark. Your attitude. I mean, he flat out told you that you're not like the usual women on his arm. I Googled him, you know."

  I blink at the non sequitur. "You did not. When?"

  "After you told me he was bringing you home. He's pretty private--I didn't find a lot and to be honest I didn't try very hard. But it doesn't look like he dates that much. Lots of women, sure, but nobody serious except for this one socialite a few months ago, but she's dead."

  "Dead? Shit. How?"

  "I know. Sad, right? Some sort of accident. But that's not the point."

  My head is spinning. "What is the point?"

  "You," she says. "I mean, even if you are just a notch on his bedpost, so what? You're not a nun."

  I almost ask if she was listening when I described the whole phone-sex-in-the-limo thing, but I wisely keep my mouth shut.

  "And honestly, I don't think you're just a notch. I think he really likes you."

  I raise a brow. "And you base this on your extensive knowledge of the man gleaned from five minutes on the Internet?"

  "I gleaned it from what you told me," she says. "He wanted your opinion on a painting. He got all alpha male on Ollie's ass. He made you come, for Christ's sake. And let's not forget the foot massage. Holy crap, girl, I'd totally fuck a guy who gave me a foot massage. Hell, I'd probably marry him."

  I can't help but smile. Sadly, Jamie probably isn't exaggerating.

  "Not every guy is an asshole like Kurt," she says, and for Jamie her voice is surprisingly gentle. "You can't keep pretending you're wearing a damn chastity belt."

  I cringe. "Just drop it. Please."

  She looks at me, then bites out a sharp, "Dammit." She draws in a breath. Her eyes are sad, and I can see that she knows she's gone too far.

  She stands up and moves to the fireplace. Since a fireplace in the San Fern
ando Valley is an absolutely idiotic concept, Jamie has converted it to a bar. Bottles instead of logs. Glasses on the mantel. She grabs the bottle of Knob Creek. "Want some?"

  I do, but I shake my head. I've had enough of alcohol for the night. "I'm tired," I say, pushing myself up off the sofa.

  "I'm really sorry. You know I wouldn't--"

  "I know," I say. "And it's really okay. I just need sleep."

  A sly smile touches her mouth, and I know that we're okay again. "I guess so. You have a meeting tomorrow, don't you? And who's that meeting with, exactly?"

  "Give it a rest, Jamie," I say, but I grin as I head toward my bedroom. She's right. I do have a big meeting. With Stark. In his offices. With my boss standing right there with the two of us.

  I think back over the events of the evening.

  I dwell on the panties I left in the limo.

  And as I collapse facedown on my bed, only one thought goes through my mind: What the hell have I done?

  10

  My arms are stretched above my head, my wrists bound by something smooth but firm. My naked body is stretched out on cool silk. I cannot move my legs.

  My eyes are closed, and yet I know what binds me. A red ribbon twined around my wrists. Wrapped tight around my ankles. I struggle, but there's nowhere to go, and I don't really want to escape anyway.

  Something cool brushes my erect nipple, and I arch up in surprise and pleasure.

  "Hush." His voice seems to brush over me like a caress.

  "Please," I whisper.

  He doesn't answer, but once again I'm sweetly assaulted by a burst of cold. This time, he doesn't pull away. It's an ice cube, and he traces it over my nipple, down the swell of my breasts. I feel the trickle of water down my cleavage as the ice melts. He traces patterns on me with the melting ice, his hands never touching me, just the cold hardness that's melting against my skin.

  "Please," I whisper again. I arch up, wanting more, but am stopped by my bindings.

  "You're mine," he says.

  I open my eyes, needing to see his face, but everything around me is gray and out of focus. I am lost in an imagined world.

  I am the girl in the painting. Aroused and on display for all the world to see.

  "Mine," he repeats, his body a blurred gray shape above me.

  His hands on my breasts are calloused and strong, yet so tender I want to cry. He eases them down, touching every inch of me, tracing my breasts, my rib cage, my belly. I tense as he approaches my pubis, suddenly afraid, but his hands lift and settle again on the outside of my thighs. I am in heaven from his touch. Lost. Floating. Dancing in a haze of pleasure.

  But then his hands shift. He takes my knees and gently forces my legs apart. And slowly, so slowly, he glides his palms up my inner thighs.

  I tense, and it's no longer a pleasurable dance but a frightening maelstrom. I try to pull away, but I'm trapped, and he's coming closer to my secrets. To my scars.

  I struggle more. I have to get away, and warning bells are ringing, echoing through the room like red-hot klaxons--

  Away,

  Away,

  Away,

  "--awake?"

  I'm jolted out of my dream by the sound of Jamie's voice. "What? I'm sorry, what?"

  On the nightstand beside me, my phone is screeching. Outside my doorway, Jamie is shouting.

  "I said, 'Are you awake?' Because if you are, you need to answer your damn phone."

  Frazzled, I reach for it, and see Carl's name on the display. I snatch it up, but the call's already rolled over to voice mail.

  With a groan, I slide my legs off the bed and stretch, then glance at the phone again to check the time. Six-fucking-thirty.

  Seriously? I mean, is the sun even up yet?

  I'm about to call him back when the phone rings yet again, and Carl's name flashes like neon.

  "I'm here," I say. "I was just about to call you back."

  "Jesus Christ, Fairchild. Where've you been?"

  "It's practically dawn. I was in bed."

  "Well, get down here. We've got a shitload of work to do. I can't get the fucking PowerPoint to work right, and we need to print out PDFs of the specs and get the proposal packages bound for Stark and his staff. I need you on it, pronto. Unless you already signed him to the deal last night? Or was there a nonbusiness purpose for his late night phone call to you?" There's a lascivious tone to the last that I really don't appreciate, but at least now I know how Damien got my phone number and my address.

  "He called to make sure I got home okay," I lie. "But next time I'd appreciate it if you didn't give out my cell number without asking me first."

  "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Get dressed and get down here. We'll go from our office to Stark's at one-thirty."

  I frown, because C-Squared occupies one corner of the eighteenth floor of the Logan Bank Building, and Stark Tower is right next door. In fact, the two buildings share a courtyard and an underground parking garage. "Isn't the meeting at two?" A snail could make the trek in thirty minutes. We should be able to manage it in five.

  "I'm not leaving anything to chance," Carl says.

  I know better than to argue. "I'll be there in an hour. Tops."

  Jamie looks up as I rush into the kitchen to pop a bagel into the toaster. "Boss on a rampage?"

  "Big time." I bend down and scratch Lady M, who's making figure eights around my legs. "And he was being oh so snarky about Damien asking me to stay last night."

  "Um, hello? You did get off in the backseat of Mr. Money-bags's limousine."

  I glare at her, then head for the shower while my bagel toasts. On the way, I pass the flower arrangement. I sigh. Jamie's right, of course.

  I let the water get so hot and steamy it makes my skin turn red. Then I step in, tensing as those first heated drops batter my body, then relaxing as the heat oozes through me. I close my eyes and let the water sluice over me. I feel like I should be angry at myself for letting it get so out of control last night, but I can't quite work up the lather. It sure as hell wasn't the most prudent thing I ever did, but I'm a grown-up and so is Stark and there was chemistry and free will and it's none of Carl's business anyway.

  Which would be all good and well if I didn't have to see the man today. Or, rather, the men. One who's a lascivious jerk. And one who I'm afraid is going to distract me and throw me off my game.

  And what if he surreptitiously shows me my panties?

  Enough.

  I can't think about it anymore or I'll go crazy, so I focus on finishing my shower and getting dressed. I choose a black skirt, white blouse, and matching jacket. Not a suit, because this is Saturday and because I'm working in the tech field and clean jeans are about as fashionable as we tend to get, but I just can't do a meeting in jeans. The shoes are a bit of a problem because my feet ache, but I jam them into my favorite black pumps anyway. I go easy on the makeup, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and, voila, dressed in fifteen minutes. I think that's a personal best.

  I grab my purse and my bagel, but I don't bother with cream cheese--with my luck I'd drop it and have to go the entire day with a creamy white smear on my black skirt. Then I shout goodbye to Jamie and head out the door.

  I pause immediately, realizing that I've just stepped on a large yellow envelope that someone has left on the doormat. I pick it up. It's light, with minimal bulk. A sheaf of papers or something similar. I turn it over and see that it has my name on it, along with the sticker from a local messenger service. I roll my eyes. Carl.

  With the envelope tucked under my arm, I head to my car. If I'm going to be on time, I'll have to read it at the stoplights.

  My usual commute-time entertainment is the news, but I can't stomach it today, so as I pull out onto Ventura Boulevard, I let the radio scan through static, evangelical stations, talk shows, and blaring rap music. I really need to get a new radio, the kind with a plug for an iPod. Finally the tuner lands on an oldies station, and by the time I enter the 101 freeway, I'm jamming with Mick a
s he and the Stones sing about not getting any satisfaction. I grin. At least last night I was one up on Jagger.

  I pull into my assigned space in a remote corner of the underground parking lot exactly forty-seven minutes from the time Carl called, which probably breaks some Los Angeles speed record. I don't leave the car immediately, though, because I still haven't looked at the envelope, and if it's about the presentation, Carl's going to expect me to know the details cold.

  I slide my finger under the flap and open it, then tilt the envelope sideways. A copy of Forbes falls into my lap, and I realize that I am grinning. There's a note paper-clipped to the outside of the magazine. I told you I was tenacious. Read and learn. There's no signature, but the From the Desk of Damien J. Stark stationery is a big clue.

  I'm still smiling as I tuck the magazine in my oversized purse. So he's tenacious, is he? Well, I can believe that. But my decision still stands. Just like I told Jamie, I can't let this go any further.

  But that doesn't mean I'm not moved by his gesture. Not only did he remember a throwaway comment from our banter at the art show, but he actually sent the magazine all the way to my house.

  "What are you grinning about?" Carl demands as I push through the glass doors into the aquarium-style conference room that is the focal point of the C-Squared offices. But he doesn't really want my answer. He's already looking me up and down, nodding, and saying, "Good. Good. You look professional, businesslike. Yeah. I'd give you money. So long as you don't screw up the slideshow."

  "I won't," I say, grateful that he's not mentioning last night or Damien or late night phone calls.

  Carl preps with the intensity of a criminal defense attorney preparing for the trial of the century. His organizational system is a thing to be marveled at, and in the relatively short time since yesterday afternoon he's completely revamped our presentation outline.

  I ask a ton of questions and make at least as many suggestions, and instead of falling back on his asshat personality, Carl responds thoughtfully, answering my questions, considering my ideas, implementing them when they make sense, and taking the time to explain when he decides to pass on one of my proposals.

  I'm in heaven. I've reviewed the specs of the 3-D modeling program enough to know that I could be a valuable member of the tech team, possibly even the team leader. But being a project leader or even a manager isn't my goal. I want to be Carl. Hell, I want to be Damien Stark. And to get there, I need to know how to pull together a kick-ass presentation that will hook an underwriter for any one of the projects I've been toying with since my last year at UT.