"I've scoured Los Angeles and Orange County. I've looked at the online collections of galleries all over the country. I haven't found what I'm looking for."
"For your new house. We're talking about the artwork you want to hang in the house you're building?" Of all the possibilities, this is not one that would have occurred to me.
"I've finally figured out what I want, and yet it doesn't exist. Not yet, anyway."
He's eyeing me with such deliberate intensity that I start to feel nervous under his gaze.
"I'm not really following you."
"As I said, I have a proposition. You."
"Ah. Um. I'm still not following you."
"I want a portrait. Of you. I want a nude."
My mouth opens, but I can't quite form words.
"The view is from behind. You're at the foot of a bed, facing a window that looks out over the ocean. Sheer curtains billow around you, caressing your skin. You stand at an angle, so we can see the swell of your breast, the barest hint of a nipple. But your face is turned away. Your identity is a secret. It's known only to me. And, of course, to you."
His words crash over me like waves, their pull as strong as the tide. I feel the tug of them between my thighs, and the unmistakable wetness as well. I want this--to be on display, and not just for Damien's pleasure, but for all the world to see. Anonymous, and yet known. It's not the kind of thing a girl like me is supposed to want. It's wild and wanton and even though I know Damien would say that it's art and it's beautiful, there's no denying that it's a little bit naughty, too. The pretty princess up on display.
Except that's not who I am. And that's sure as hell not what I am.
Damien is watching my face with the same intensity I saw in his boardroom. "Good," he says. "You're not discounting the idea outright. I want this, Nikki. I can already picture how it will look on my wall."
I don't look at him, but trail my fingertip over the countertop. "You think you know what you'd be getting, but you don't."
There's silence, and I peek up at him. He's taking me in, his eyes moving slowly over me. "Don't I?"
My breath hitches as he moves close, then reaches out to slowly stroke my cheek, his movements suggesting that I already am a work of art, fragile and beautiful and perfect.
The thought makes me flinch and I jerk away. "No," I say. "Not happening." I summon a teasing grin. "Maybe we should just find you a nice poster. Like the Hang in there, Baby kitten. That would be charming."
My weak attempt at humor doesn't even faze him. "Name your price, Ms. Fairchild. Tell me what you want."
"What I want?" What I want is to be like him. Strong and confident and capable.
But I'm not ready to reveal that much of myself. So I give him the standard line. "I want a family," I say. "I want a satisfying career." And with a tossback to my years of pageant training, I add the piece de resistance. "I want world peace."
His eyes seem to burn into me, cutting through all my bullshit.
And then he's right there, his hands on my waist. He pulls me roughly toward him, and I tilt my head back to look into his eyes. What I see makes me shiver. Makes me want. I feel the flesh between my thighs throbbing. I remember the feel of his hand there, of his fingers inside me, and my muscles clench in need.
It's burning hotter and hotter, and I'm afraid I won't be able to turn back. More, I'm afraid I won't want to.
I keep my face motionless, thinking that I'm revealing nothing.
"I can give you what you want, Nikki," he says, and his voice is so gentle that I begin to think I've won. Maybe Damien does see what no one else does. Maybe he sees through my mask.
The thought both terrifies and excites me. Slowly, I shake my head, then manage an insolent smile. "Will you be orchestrating world peace today or later this month?"
"I'll pay you for the portrait," he says, his words seemingly a non sequitur. "I'll pay you. I'll pay the artist. I'll arrange a studio space. You're a businesswoman, Nikki. Isn't that what you ultimately want? Your own business?"
I gape at him, too surprised that he knows this to respond. Who the hell has he been talking to about me?
"This is a chance to kick-start your career."
I shake my head, ignoring the small knot inside me that is excited by his proposition. "I'm a businesswoman, not a model."
"You're my model. And everyone has a price."
"I don't."
"No?" He steps closer, his body full of challenge and confidence. "One million dollars, Ms. Fairchild. You get the cash, and I get you."
14
One million dollars. The words surround me, tempt me, and it's that temptation that pushes me to react.
I lurch back out of his grasp, then lash out and slap him hard across the face.
He looks at me, his eyes burning with something I don't recognize. Then he grabs my wrist and pulls me to him. His arm is around my waist, my wrist still clutched tight in his hand so that my arm is twisted painfully behind me. His body is hard against mine, and all I'm aware of is Damien. In that moment, I'm totally his, and we both know it. He can hurt me. He can have me.
My body quivers with desire. My lips part. I'm breathing fast. I don't understand my reaction to him. It's primal. Fierce. I am overwhelmed by the urge to simply surrender.
No.
I focus on his face. "I think you should leave." I'm not sure how I manage to keep my voice steady.
"I'll go," he says. "But I will get my painting." I start to snap out a retort, but he presses a finger over my lips. "I'll get it because I want it--because I want you. And I'll get it because you want it, too. No," he says before I can speak. "Remember the rules. Don't lie to me, Nikki. Never lie to me."
And then he's kissing me. He releases my arm and buries his fingers in my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth covers mine. I moan as his tongue roughly explores my mouth, and my arm snakes around his neck. I don't know if he's pulled me closer or if I've moved against him, but I can feel the hard press of his erection against my thigh. He's right, damn him. He's right. I want this, I want this, I really shouldn't want this.
Then he releases me, and I feel so loose and weak I'm surprised that gravity doesn't suck me down to the ground. He shoots me one final, smoldering look and then strides to my door. He opens it and disappears over the threshold before my heart rate has returned to normal.
I reach out and clutch the back of the dining table chair, then slowly lower myself until I'm sitting. I bend forward, my elbows on my knees, wanting to hate him for the offer he made and for the things he said. True things, but they're a truth I wish I could ignore. That I will ignore.
I don't know how long I sit there, but I'm still at the table when Jamie waltzes in, hair mussed and no bra. I'm certain she was wearing a bra when she left; I would have noticed if she'd been sitting half-naked with Damien.
"Douglas?" I ask. I hadn't heard the familiar bang and thump, but I'd been a bit preoccupied.
"God no," she says, and for a moment I'm relieved. I have no theory as to how she misplaced a bra, but at least I know she wasn't out grabbing a fast fuck. "Kevin in 2H," she says, and my relief turns cold and icy.
"You fucked him?"
"Trust me, that's all he's good for. The guy's really not a brain trust, and we don't have a lot in common. Well, except for an excess of energy."
"Jesus, Jamie." My problems seem petty and stupid compared to the complete randomness of Jamie's conquests. "Why sleep with him if you don't even like him?"
"Because it's fun. Don't worry. He's not going to go all stalker on me. We both know it's a no-strings kind of thing."
"It's dangerous, James," I say, the nickname from our childhood signaling that this is a Serious Conversation.
"Bullshit, Nicholas," she counters. "I told you. He's not the dangerous sort."
"I'm not talking about only him. But just because you think he looks nice doesn't mean he's not a whack job. And how do you know you won't catch something? Were you careful
?"
"Christ, already. Are you my mom? Of course I was careful."
"Sorry. I'm sorry." I move the five feet into our living room and flop onto the sofa. "You're my best friend. I worry. I mean, you do these guys, and then they're out of your life." I frown, thinking of Damien. "Do you ever think about dating?" I ask, more harshly than I intend.
"Do you?"
I struggle to remain level. "This isn't about me."
"No, but it could be. I fuck around. You don't fuck at all. It's like we're that Emily Dickinson poem."
I stare at her, utterly confused.
"The candle," she clarifies. "You burn at one end, and I burn at the other."
I can't help but laugh. "That makes no sense whatsoever."
She shrugs. Sometimes Jamie is profound. Sometimes she's not. She doesn't much care either way. It's one of the reasons I love her, and one of the things I admire about her. No matter what else she might be, at the end of the day, Jamie is always Jamie.
Not so, me.
Or Damien Stark, I think.
I wonder if that's why I find him so alluring.
"That smile isn't for me," Jamie says. "And I seriously doubt it's for Kevin or Douglas. So let's see ... hmmm ... could you be thinking about the sexy hunka hunka billionaire who just left our little shack of a condo?"
"I could be," I admit.
"So what was the present? More important, why aren't you two in your bedroom fucking your brains out?"
"We're not dating," I say.
"Like you have to date to fuck?"
"He wants me to pose for a nude portrait," I say, though I hadn't intended to tell her a thing. "And he's willing to pay me one million dollars to get it."
She gapes at me. I have actually flummoxed Jamie Archer. This is a first.
"A million dollars? Seriously?"
"Yup."
"So? Are you thinking about it?"
"No," I say automatically. "Of course not."
But even as I say the words, I know I don't mean them. I am thinking about it. About being naked on that canvas. About Damien Stark standing in his living room and looking up at me.
A shiver runs through me. "Let's go," I say.
Jamie cocks her head. "Go? Where?"
"Out. It's Saturday. There will be dancing involved. And drinking. Definitely drinking."
"Are we celebrating?" There's a knowing lilt to her voice.
"Maybe." I shrug. "But maybe I just want to dance."
"We should call Ollie and Courtney," she says once we've both changed and are back in the living room. I look up from where I'm checking my purse for all the necessities of a night out. "He called earlier, by the way. I forgot to tell you."
"Oh, hell. Did he want me to call him back?"
She shrugged. "He was just calling to check on you. Make sure Damien Stark didn't eat you up last night. Little did he know."
My cheeks warm. "You didn't tell him?"
"All I said was that you got home safe. That Stark put you in a limo and sent you home. I didn't share the dirty details. Should I have?" There's a mischievous gleam in her eye. "I bet Ollie would like that story."
"No," I say firmly. "No."
"So do we call them?"
"Why not?"
Courtney declines since she has to wake up early to go to some conference in San Diego, but Ollie is up for meeting us. We start out at Donnelly's, a pub near the house he's renting in West Hollywood, and move on to Westerfield's. "Don't worry," Ollie says as I eye the long line behind the red velvet rope. "I promise we'll glide right in."
I assume Ollie has some sort of suck with the guy at the door, but it turns out that my friend is relying on Jamie and me. The bouncer looks us up and down, and Jamie gives him her best I'm so hot it should be criminal look. "In," the guy says, and I can feel his eyes on my ass as we enter the dark, thrumming venue.
"This is crazy," I shout. "We can't even talk."
"Then dance!"
Jamie takes my hand and Ollie's and drags us onto the dance floor. I can feel the bass reverberating through my chest, and after a moment, I allow myself to get lost in the wild, pulsing sensation. Ollie and Jamie have both had a few more drinks than me, and they're totally into the music, doing a little bump and grind number that I'd worry about if I didn't know what good friends they are.
No, I think, what good friends we are. I ease my way between the two of them, hook my arms around their shoulders, and proceed to laugh my head off as we try to coordinate some sort of move that doesn't end up with the three of us falling on our asses. It's fun, but I'm sure we look ridiculous. I don't care, though. I'm in the midst of a total attitude adjustment. I'm there with my two best friends. I'm in Los Angeles. I have a great job. I've had two amazing orgasms in the last twenty-four hours, and I've fielded an offer worth one million dollars. Honestly, days like these don't come along that often.
"Drinks are on me," I say, realizing that I'm more than a little parched.
The bar is all the way in the back of the room, and when I arrive there, I realize why. It's infinitesimally quieter here, which means that the bartender doesn't have to know how to lip-read in order to hear the drink order. I'm standing there waiting to get the drinks back when Ollie approaches, his hair stuck to his forehead and his face red from the efforts of keeping up with Jamie on the dance floor.
"She wear you out?" I ask.
"Never," he says, and there's a devious little gleam in his eye. "She hit the ladies'. Thought I'd come find you. There's something I want to talk to you about."
"Okay." I frown, because this is hardly the best location for a heart-to-heart. "What's up?"
"Stark," he says. "I got the impression from Jamie that things between you two might be heating up."
I make a mental note to strangle Jamie.
"They're not," I say, not sure if I'm telling the truth or telling a lie. It's the first time I can remember not being completely honest with Ollie, but for the moment, I want to keep my complicated feelings about Damien Stark to myself.
"Yeah?" he says. "Well, good. Because I was worried about you."
Alarm bells ring in my head. "Really? Why?"
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "The way he looked at you at the party. The way you looked back."
"Okay, yeah, there was heat," I admit. "But why is that a problem? Why did you tell me to be careful?"
He runs his fingers through his hair, and the damp strands curl even more. It gives him a mussed, sexy look.
"Just stay away from him, okay? The guy's dangerous."
"Dangerous how?"
Ollie shrugs. "You know. He has a temper, for one thing."
"That's hardly news," I say. "He was famous for it during his tennis days. That's how he messed up his eye." During a fight with another player, Damien had been hit in the face with a racquet. According to the stuff I'd read, he'd been incredibly lucky that he'd suffered no permanent or debilitating injury, but the pupil of his left eye is now permanently enlarged. "But that was a long time ago, and he's not a competitive athlete anymore. Is that seriously what you're concerned about?"
But Ollie just shakes his head as Jamie bounces up to the bar and grabs his arm. "I'm taking him back," she says.
I watch them slide back onto the dance floor. Dangerous.
He's dangerous, all right. But somehow I don't think Ollie means it the same way that I do.
"Seriously, Jamie," I say, as she turns down yet another twisting, winding, darkened Malibu street. "Can't we just go home?" We are completely lost. The street signs have apparently been hidden by elves. I'm sure it's to keep the riff-raff out. And we, of course, are firmly among the riff.
We parted ways with Ollie over an hour ago after having eggs and toast and an ocean of coffee at Dukes on Sunset. Only after he'd gone did Jamie tell me that we were going on a mission to find Stark's new Malibu house. "One of the articles I read said it had beach access. And I used to hang with this guy from Malibu, so I got to know the roads pr
etty well."
I, of course, protested that she was insane. But I didn't protest too loudly. I admit I was curious. And even though I doubted we could find the place, driving around Malibu in the middle of the night seemed just crazy enough to be fun.
Now, however, I am getting tired and a little bit carsick.
"We might as well go home," I say. "We're never going to find it."
"We will," she insists, pulling over long enough to squint at the map she's pulled up on her phone. "If it has beach access there aren't that many streets it can be on. And it's not like there's a lot of construction going on right now, especially not for the square footage that a guy like Damien Stark will want. When we get close, we'll see it."
"Yeah, but that's part of the problem, isn't it? I mean, this isn't some two-thousand-square-foot house in suburban Texas where you can just wander through the framing and drywall. Even if you find it, there's going to be a fence and probably security."
"I just want to see," she says, edging back out onto the road. "Don't you? I mean, you can learn a lot about a guy from his taste in buildings, right?"
I don't answer. She and Ollie have made me think, and the truth is that I don't know a lot about Damien Stark. I know what the public knows. And I know a few truly intimate details. But the man himself? How much have I seen of the real Damien Stark?
I glance sideways at Jamie, and then the words are out without me even making a conscious decision. "Ollie says Stark is dangerous."
"Yeah," she says, surprising me. "He told me. He's worried about you."
"I'm fine," I say, sliding down in the seat and putting my bare feet up on the dash. I'm not going to pursue this. Ollie is just being overprotective. "Dangerous how?" I ask, ignoring all my wise counsel. "I'm not buying his line that it's all about Stark's temper."
"Temper? I don't think so. He wouldn't say exactly. I figure he knows something from work. Bender, Twain & McGuire reps Stark, you know. Their corporate department handles all his business stuff, and I guess the rest of the firm handles, you know, everything else."
"Oh." I consider that. "Attorney-client privilege?"
"I guess," Jamie concedes. "I mean, I don't think Ollie has worked on any of Stark's stuff directly, he's too junior. But he's probably seen files and heard the partners talking."