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  Today I'm going to get to see two entrepreneurs in action. Carl, who rarely fails to get financing for any project he pitches. And Damien Stark, who has never said yes to a project that didn't ultimately exceed expectations and make a fortune for both him and the underlying company.

  The conference room table is littered with paper, electronic tablets, and notebook computers. While the rest of the team scurries about, Brian and Dave, the two lead programmers who had worked with Carl developing the software, bang away at the notebooks, fine-tuning the presentation slideshow and doing dry runs of the software with a staggering number of parameters.

  Carl paces, his eagle eye on everyone. "We're doing this right," he says. "No fuck-ups. No slips. A well-oiled ship." He narrows his eyes at Dave. "Go order up some sandwiches for lunch, but I swear to God, if anyone goes to that meeting with mustard on their shirt, I am firing his ass right then and there."

  At one-thirty sharp, Carl, Brian, Dave, and I gather our things and march mustard-free to the elevator. Carl fidgets during the entire eighteen-story descent. He looks at himself so often in the mirrored wall panels that I am tempted to tell him he makes a beautiful bride. Wisely, I keep my mouth shut.

  Of course, once we cross the courtyard and enter the ultra-modern Stark Tower, I'm the one who fidgets. My nervousness exists on so many levels that I can't even rally and organize my thoughts. There's the basic flutter of nerves simply from the thought of seeing Stark again. Then there's the fear that he's going to say something during the meeting--not necessarily even something suggestive. But God forbid he should say the word "phone." Or "ice." It'll throw me off my game completely.

  I stop worrying long enough to sign in at the security desk, which is really more of a console, sleek and efficient. Two guards sit behind it, one typing something and the other efficiently taking and scanning our drivers' licenses.

  "All checked in," the guard, whose nametag reads Joe, says. "You're cleared to the penthouse," he adds, handing us each a guest badge.

  "The penthouse?" Carl repeats. "Our meeting's at Stark Applied Technology." The company is one of many owned by Stark and housed in this building. Tech companies, charitable foundations, companies that do things I probably haven't even thought about. I glance down at the list of business names on the backlit console. All of them, I realize, are somehow related to Stark International. In other words, all of them are related to Damien Stark. Whatever I thought I knew was wrong; I have no concept of the wealth and power that Mr. Damien Stark commands.

  "Yup, all the way up," Joe is saying to Carl. "On Saturdays, Mr. Stark takes meetings in the penthouse conference room. Use the last elevator bank on the end. Here's your card key to access the penthouse."

  My nervousness returns in the elevator. And this time it's not just about seeing Damien. It's about the presentation, too. I latch onto that. Work nerves are much better than sex nerves.

  As Joe had said, we arrive at the penthouse quickly and smoothly. Carl and I are standing near the elevator doors when they open, with Brian and Dave behind us guiding the rolling cases that house all of our presentation materials. At first, I can only stand and gape. I'm staring at a stunning, yet comfortable, reception area.

  One wall is made entirely of glass and presents a magnificent vista of the hills of Pasadena. At least a dozen Impressionist paintings line the other walls, each simply framed so as to keep the focus on the art and not the package. Each is individually lit and together they present an array of nature scenes. Verdant fields. Sparkling lakes. Vibrant sunsets. Impressive mountain ranges.

  The art gives a soft, welcoming quality to the polished reception area, as does the coffee bar that stands off to one side, silently inviting guests to help themselves, and then take a seat on the black leather sofa. A smattering of magazines covers a coffee table, the topics ranging from finance to science to sports to celebrity. Off to the side, a foosball table adds a bit of whimsy.

  A reception desk dominates the room, its surface cleared of everything except an appointment calendar and a phone. At the moment, it is unmanned. I'm wondering if Damien doesn't keep a receptionist working on Saturdays when a tall, lithe brunette appears in the hallway leading off to the left. She smiles at us, revealing perfect teeth. "Mr. Rosenfeld," she says, holding out her hand. "I'm Ms. Peters, Mr. Stark's weekend assistant. I'd like to welcome you and your team to the penthouse. Mr. Stark is very much looking forward to your presentation."

  "Thank you," Carl says. He looks a little intimidated. Behind me, Brian and Dave are a cacophony of shifting feet and rustling clothes. They are definitely a little intimidated.

  Ms. Peters leads us down a wide hallway to the right and into a conference room so huge that NFL teams could practice there. It's then that I realize that the penthouse office takes up a full half of the top story. The elevator rose in the center of the building, and the side we're on is roughly shaped like a rectangle, with the reception area in the middle, the conference room on one side, and Stark's office on the other.

  But that means that there is an entire half a story behind us. Does Stark's office flow into that space as well? Is some other CEO subletting from Stark?

  I'm not sure why I'm so curious, but I am, and so I ask Ms. Peters about the building's layout.

  "You're right," she says. "The office area of the penthouse takes up only half the square footage. The rest of the space constitutes one of Mr. Stark's private residences. We call it the Tower Apartment."

  "Oh," I say, wondering how many residences Damien Stark has. I don't ask, though. I've already pushed the bounds of nosiness.

  Ms. Peters points out the hidden wet bar built into one wall. "It's fully stocked. Help yourself to orange juice, coffee, water, soda. Or if you need it to calm your nerves, you're more than welcome to have something stronger." She says the last with a smile, her voice full of humor. But honestly, at the moment I'm thinking that a double shot of bourbon might be just the ticket.

  "I'll leave you to set up," Ms. Peters says. "If you need anything, just buzz me. Mr. Stark is finishing a call. I expect he'll join you in ten minutes."

  It turns out to be twelve. Twelve long minutes during which I alternate between working feverishly to set up our showcase and worrying nervously about how I'll react when I see him again.

  And then the twelve minutes are over and Damien is striding into the conference area. The moment he enters the space, the air shifts. This is his territory, and though he doesn't say a word, power and authority seem to cling to him, and the two men who enter behind him are little more than afterthoughts. Every movement is controlled, every glance has purpose. There can be no doubt that Damien Stark is the one in charge, and I feel a strange little surge of pride that this exceptional man not only wanted me, but has touched me so intimately.

  He's wearing jeans and a tan sport coat over a pale blue shirt. The top button is undone, and the ensemble gives him a casual, approachable quality. I wonder if he dressed that way on purpose in an attempt to make his guests more at ease. Just as quickly, I realize that of course he did. I can't imagine that Damien Stark does anything without fully understanding the impact his actions will have.

  "Thank you all for meeting here. On the weekends I like to work out of the penthouse. The change of pace reminds me that it's time to kick back a little." He turns to his two companions and introduces them as Preston Rhodes, the new head of acquisitions, and Mac Talbot, a new member of the product acquisition team. Then Stark shakes Brian's and Dave's hands, taking the time to chat briefly with each. They still look nervous, but I think that he's soothed them enough that neither of the boys will botch the presentation by pushing a wrong button with a shaky finger.

  He greets me next. Acceptable, polite, professional. But when he pulls his hand away, there's the slightest curve of his finger, so that he gently strokes my palm. Maybe it's my imagination, but I choose to take it as an acknowledgment that last night happened, but that today is only about the presentation.

&nbs
p; All that in one little touch. I smile, and as I take my seat at the table, I realize that I'm much calmer. Whether he intended it to or not, Stark's touch has soothed me.

  Finally, he shakes Carl's hand and greets him as if they're the best of friends. They chat about vintage LPs--apparently Carl collects them--and the weather and the traffic on the 405. His intent is clear--he's putting Carl at ease, and he's done it so skillfully I can't help but admire his technique. Finally, Stark takes a seat at the conference table, but not at the head. Instead, he sits opposite me, his long legs stretched out. He gestures to the head of the table and tells Carl to begin whenever he's ready.

  I've seen the presentation so many times that I mostly tune it out, focusing instead on Stark's reaction. The technology really is amazing. Video footage of athletes is analyzed using a series of proprietary algorithms that translate anatomical movement into spatial data sets. Stats from each player are mapped against the data. Then, taking into account the player's particular body structure and metrics, the software provides concrete suggestions for improving performance. But what is truly revolutionary is that those suggestions are demonstrated in holographic form so that the athletes and their coaches can see the actual position adjustments necessary for improvement.

  Every article I've read about Stark mentions how brilliant he is, but today I get to see that intellect in action. He asks all the right questions from theoretical to applied to marketing and sales. When Carl raves and crows instead of letting the product speak for itself, Stark shuts that down so skillfully that I don't think Carl even notices. He's direct and to the point, efficient without being rude, firm without being patronizing. The man may have made his original fortune on a tennis court, but as I watch him, I have no doubt that business and science are in his blood.

  Stark asks questions of all of us, including Brian and Dave, who gape and mumble but manage to articulate responses under Stark's easy but firm control of the conversation.

  He turns to me next and asks a technical question about one of the key equations at the heart of the primary algorithm. I can see Carl out of the corner of my eye, and I'm pretty sure he's about to have a heart attack. This question is very firmly outside of my job description. But I've done my homework, and I use the virtual whiteboard to show Stark the mathematical underpinnings of the equation. I even go so far as to address the anticipated consequences of a few hypothetical adjustments that Stark suggests. At the head of the table, Carl sags in relief.

  I've obviously impressed my boss. But what's more satisfying is that I've impressed Stark. I can't say the satisfaction rises to the same level as last night, but it comes pretty damn close.

  When the meeting finally wraps up, I can tell that Carl is having a hell of a time playing the cool, calm professional. He knows too well that the whole thing went over fabulously. Stark's interested in the product and impressed by the team. In this business, it doesn't get much better than that.

  We're just about to start the round of goodbyes and handshakes when Ms. Peters steps in, her expression tightly efficient. "I apologize for interrupting, Mr. Stark, but you asked me to inform you if Mr. Padgett returned to the building."

  "He's here now?" I watch as Stark's expression shifts from casual and calm to hard and dangerous.

  "Security just called up. I assume you'd like to speak to them?"

  Stark nods, then turns to face us. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. There's a situation that demands my attention. I'll be in touch next week." He glances at Ms. Peters. "If you could see our guests out?"

  "Of course, sir."

  His eyes meet mine, but they are unreadable. And then he steps out of the conference room and disappears down the hall. The sense of loss from his departure surprises me, but I say my goodbyes to his colleagues, then turn my attention to helping Brian pack one of the cases, all the while afraid that everyone in the room can read my expression.

  After Ms. Peters has put us on the elevator and the door has firmly closed, Carl does such a funky little jig that I can't help but laugh. "That was great," I say. "Thank you so much for letting me be here for this."

  Carl spreads his arms in a magnanimous gesture. "Hey, we're a team. And we all kicked some ass." The elevator doors open onto the lobby, and Carl swings his arms jovially around Brian's and Dave's shoulders. They valiantly try to move with their boss and still drag the rolling cases. I'm about to take pity on them when I hear my name.

  I look up and see Joe the security guard gesturing toward me. "Ms. Fairchild? If you have a moment?" He's holding a phone to his ear.

  "Yes?" I say, hurrying to the guard desk.

  Joe holds up a finger in a just a moment gesture. I glance sideways at Carl, who's looking at me with an unmistakable what the fuck? expression. I shrug, just as clueless as my boss.

  Joe says something I can't hear, then hangs up the phone. "You're wanted upstairs, ma'am."

  "Upstairs?"

  "Back in the penthouse," he says. "Mr. Stark would like to see you."

  Behind me, I see Dave and Brian nudge each other. Great. Apparently Carl shared his suspicions with the staff. Maybe by tomorrow there'll be an interoffice memo.

  "Now's not a good time," I tell the guard. "I'm on my way to a team meeting."

  "Mr. Stark was very insistent."

  I bet he was. An unpleasant heaviness starts to settle over me. I spent most of my life being told exactly where to be, where to stand, what to do, and when to do it. I squeeze my right hand into a tight fist and force myself to smile at Joe. "I'm sure he'll find something else to occupy his time this afternoon. But if he calls my office, I'll be happy to work him into my schedule next week."

  Joe's eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open a little, as if his jaw is made of rubber. I have the feeling nothing like this has happened before. People don't say no to Damien Stark.

  I toss my shoulders back a little, liking the new Nikki. "Shall we?" I say to Carl and the boys.

  Carl frowns. "Maybe you--"

  "No," I say. "If he wants to talk about the project, we can all go back up." In the distance, I hear the ding of an elevator, the sound punctuating my resolve.

  "And if it's not the project he wants to see you about?" Carl asks, looking at me hard.

  I stare back, just as coolly. "Then he doesn't need to see me, does he?" I stand firm, daring Carl to send me up there. He did it once at the party. If he does it again in the lobby of Stark's building, it really isn't going to be pretty.

  After a moment, he nods. "Come on. Champagne's waiting."

  Joe has been eyeing us warily, and now that we're moving toward the exit, he becomes animated. "I'm going to need to call Mr. Stark's office," he says. "He's expecting you upstairs."

  "It's all right, Joe."

  I recognize the voice before I see the man--it's Stark, of course, and he emerges from the elevator bank looking calm and polished. Just seeing him sends a jolt of awareness through me. It's like the fight or flight response. With Stark, I think it's a little bit of both.

  He passes by the security desk and shakes hands with my good buddy Joe and the second guard before continuing on toward me and Carl and the boys.

  "Ms. Fairchild," he says, my name sounding soft and decadent on his lips. "My decorator sent over some portfolio pages from local artists. I was hoping to get your opinion on a few of the pieces."

  "You didn't find something you liked last night?" Carl asks.

  "I wouldn't say that," Stark answers, his eyes on me. "But I'm still not satisfied."

  Fortunately, Carl is looking at Stark. Otherwise, he might notice that my face has undoubtedly turned a dozen shades of red.

  "I apologize for the short notice--you probably have a team meeting planned?--but I'd like to get this matter put to bed."

  My mouth goes dry at his choice of words.

  "No plans," Carl lies, waving his hand casually. "It's Saturday. I was just about to wish everyone a good weekend and congratulate them on a job well done."

>   "Then you don't mind if I steal Ms. Fairchild again." He takes a step closer to me, and as is always the case with Damien Stark, I can feel the effect of him in the air between us.

  "Not at all," Carl says. "I'm sure she'll be very helpful." The last is said with a tone that I really don't appreciate, but since I'm going to accept Stark's invitation and not return with my co-workers, I can't really complain.

  Yes, despite my earlier resolve I'm going up to the penthouse with Stark.

  Why? Because of the way the air has fired between us.

  Because of the way my flesh is tingling merely from his proximity.

  Because he came down here and so boldly demanded it.

  And, finally, because even though he wants a piece of my ass, all Stark's getting today is a piece of my mind.

  11

  Stark takes my arm and leads me back toward the elevator bank. I'm hyperaware of his touch, but I try to ignore it and hold on to my irritation.

  We stop in front of an elevator next to the one I rode up in with the team. The doors open the moment Stark inserts his identification card into a slot so well camouflaged it looks like part of the granite. We step onto the elevator and I jerk my arm free. "What do you think you're doing?" I demand.

  "Hold on," Stark says as the doors close behind us.

  "No, I'm not holding on. You don't get to just snap your fingers and expect me to--" The ground bursts upward, and I stumble forward, clutching at Stark as I try to steady myself. He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me closer. My pulse kicks into overdrive, and I know damn well it's not from the velocity of our ascent.

  "I meant hold on to something," he says. "This is my private elevator. It goes straight to the penthouse, and it goes there quickly."

  "Oh," I say stupidly. My irritation is fading, diluted by the intense power charging the air between us. It's magnetic ... and like a magnet it has the power to erase. Thoughts. Memories. Emotions.

  Hold on a minute....

  I press my palms flat against his chest and use him as leverage to push myself back up. When I'm righted, I move my hands from his chest to the elevator's interior railing. I hold it tight, just in case.