Release Me, Page 3

  Shit.

  He doesn't even try to hide his amusement. "I believe I've shocked you, Ms. Fairchild."

  "Hell yes, you've shocked me. What did you expect?"

  He doesn't answer, just tilts his head back and laughs. It's as if a mask has slipped away, allowing me a glimpse of the real man hidden beneath. I smile, liking that we have this one small thing in common.

  "Can anyone join this party?" It's Carl, and I want desperately to say no.

  "How nice to see you again, Mr. Rosenfeld," Stark says. The mask is firmly back in place.

  Carl glances at me, and I can see the question in his eyes. "Excuse me," I say. "I need to run to the ladies' room."

  I escape to the cool elegance of Evelyn's powder room. She's thoughtfully provided mouthwash and hairspray and even disposable mascara wands. There is a lavender-scented salt scrub on the stone vanity, and I put a spoonful in my hands, then close my eyes and rub, imagining that I'm sloughing off the shell of myself to reveal something bright and shiny and new.

  I rinse my hands in warm water, then caress my skin with my fingertips. My hands are soft now. Slick and sensual.

  I meet my eyes in the mirror. "No," I whisper, but my hand slides down to brush the hem of my dress just below my knee. It's fitted at the bodice and waist, but the skirt is flared, designed to present an enticing little swish when you move.

  My fingers dance across my knee, then trail lazily up my inner thigh. I meet my gaze in the mirror, then close my eyes. It's Stark's face I want to see. His eyes I imagine watching me from that mirror.

  There's a sensuality in the way my fingers slowly graze my own skin. A lazy eroticism that some other time could build to something hot and explosive. But that's not where I'm going--that's what I'm destroying.

  I stop when I feel it--the jagged, raised tissue of the five-year-old scar that mars the once-perfect flesh of my inner thigh. I press my fingertips to it, remembering the pain that punctuated that particular wound. That had been the weekend that my sister, Ashley, had died, and I'd just about crumbled under the weight of my grief.

  But that's the past, and I close my eyes tight, my body hot, the scar throbbing beneath my hand.

  This time when I open my eyes, all I see is myself. Nikki Fairchild, back in control.

  I wrap my restored confidence around me like a blanket and return to the party. Both men look at me as I approach. Stark's face is unreadable, but Carl isn't even trying to hide his joy. He looks like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. "Say your goodbyes, Nikki. We're heading out. Lots to do. Lots to do."

  "What? Now?" I don't bother to hide my confusion.

  "Turns out Mr. Stark's going to be out of town on Tuesday, so we're pushing the meeting to tomorrow."

  "Saturday?"

  "Is that a problem?" Stark asks me.

  "No, of course not, but--"

  "He's attending personally," Carl says. "Personally," he repeats, as if I could have missed it the first time.

  "Right. I'll just find Evelyn and say goodnight." I start to move away, but Stark's voice draws me back.

  "I'd like Ms. Fairchild to stay."

  "What?" Carl speaks, expressing my thought.

  "The house I'm building is almost complete. I came here to find a painting for a particular room. I'd like a feminine perspective. I'll see her home safely, of course."

  "Oh." Carl looks like he's going to protest, then thinks better of it. "She'll be happy to help."

  The hell she will. It's one thing to wear the dress. It's another to completely skip the presentation rehearsal because a self-absorbed bazillionaire snaps his fingers and says jump. No matter how hot said bazillionaire might be.

  But Carl cuts me off before I can form a coherent reply. "We'll speak tomorrow morning," he tells me. "The meeting's at two."

  And then he's gone and I'm left seething beside a very smug Damien Stark.

  "Who the hell do you think you are?"

  "I know exactly who I am, Ms. Fairchild. Do you?"

  "Maybe the better question is, who the hell do you think I am?"

  "Are you attracted to me?"

  "I--what?" I say, verbally stumbling. His words have knocked me off center, and I struggle to regain my balance. "That is so not the issue."

  The corner of his mouth twitches, and I realize I've revealed too much.

  "I'm Carl's assistant," I say firmly and slowly. "Not yours. And my job description does not include decorating your goddamn house." I'm not shouting, but my voice is as taut as a wire and my body even more so.

  Stark, damn him, appears not only perfectly at ease, but also completely amused. "If your job duties include helping your boss find capital, then you may want to reconsider how you play the game. Insulting potential investors is probably not the best approach."

  A cold stab of fear that I've screwed this up cuts through me. "Maybe not," I say. "But if you're going to withhold your money because I didn't roll over and flounce my skirts for you, then you're not the man the press makes you out to be. The Damien Stark I've read about invests in quality. Not in friendships or relationships or because he thinks some poor little inventor needs the deal. The Damien Stark I admire focuses on talent and talent alone. Or is that just public relations?"

  I stand straight, ready to endure whatever verbal lashes he'll whip back at me. I'm not prepared for the response I get.

  Stark laughs.

  "You're right," he says. "I'm not going to invest in C-Squared because I met Carl at a party any more than I'd invest in it because you're in my bed."

  "Oh." Once again, my cheeks heat. Once again, he's knocked me off balance.

  "I do, however, want you."

  My mouth is dry. I have to swallow before I can speak. "To help you pick a painting?"

  "Yes," he confirms. "For now."

  I force myself not to wonder about later. "Why?"

  "Because I need an honest opinion. Most women on my arm say what they think will make me happy, not what they actually mean."

  "But I'm not on your arm, Mr. Stark." I let the words hang for a moment. Then I deliberately turn my back and walk away. I can feel him watching me, but I neither stop nor turn around. Slowly, I smile. I even add a little swing to my step. This is my moment of triumph and I intend to savor it.

  Except victory isn't as delicious as I expected. In fact, it's a little bitter. Because secretly--oh, so secretly--I can't help but wonder what it would be like to be the girl on Damien Stark's arm.

  4

  I cross the entire room before I pause, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. Fifty-five steps. I counted every one of them, and now that there's no place left to go I am simply standing still, staring at one of Blaine's paintings. Another nude, this one lying on her side across a stark white bed, only the foreground in focus. The rest of the room--walls, furniture--are nothing more than the blurred gray suggestions of shapes.

  The woman's skin is pale, as if she's never seen the sun. But her face suggests otherwise. It reflects so much ecstasy that it seems to glow.

  There is only one splash of color on the entire canvas--a long red ribbon. It is tied loosely around the woman's neck, then extends between her heavy breasts to trail down even farther. It slides between her legs, then continues, the image fading into the background before meeting the edge of the canvas. There's a tautness to the ribbon, though, and it's clear what story the artist is telling; her lover is there, just off the canvas, and he's holding the ribbon, making it slide over her, making her writhe against it in a desperate need to find the pleasure that he's teasing her with.

  I swallow, imagining the sensation of that cool, smooth satin stroking me between my legs. Making me hot, making me come ...

  And in my fantasy, it's Damien Stark who is holding that ribbon.

  This is not good.

  I ease away from the painting toward the bar, which is the only place in the entire room where I'm not bombarded by erotic imagery. Honestly, I need the break. Erotic art doesn't usuall
y make me melt. Except, of course, it's not the art that's making me hot.

  I do, however, want you.

  What had he meant by that?

  More to the point, what do I want him to mean by that? Which, of course, is a bullshit question. I know what I want. The same thing I wanted six years ago. I also know it will never happen. And even the fantasy is a very bad idea.

  I scan the room, telling myself I'm only looking over the art. Apparently this is my night for self-deception. I'm looking for Stark, but when I find him, I wish that I hadn't bothered. He's standing next to a tall, lithe woman with short dark hair. She looks like Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina, vibrant and beautiful. Her small features are alight with pleasure, and as she laughs she reaches out and touches him in a casual, intimate gesture. My stomach hurts just watching them. Good God, I don't even know this man. Can I really be jealous?

  I consider the possibility, and in the spirit of tonight's theme, I deceive myself once more. Not jealousy--anger. I'm pissed that Stark could so cavalierly flirt with me even though he's obviously enthralled by another woman--a beautiful, charming, radiant woman.

  "More champagne?" The bartender holds out a flute. Tempting. Very tempting, but I shake my head. I don't need to get drunk. I need to get out of here.

  More guests arrive, and the room overflows with people. I look for Stark again, but he has disappeared into the crowd. Audrey Hepburn is nowhere in sight, either. I'm sure wherever they are, they're having a dandy time.

  I sandwich myself between a wall and a hallway cordoned off with a velvet rope. Presumably it leads to the rest of Evelyn's house. Right now, it's the closest thing to privacy I have.

  I take out my phone, hit speed dial, and wait for Jamie to answer.

  "You will so not believe this," she says, skipping all the preliminaries. "I just did the nasty with Douglas."

  "Oh my God, Jamie. Why?" Okay, that came out before I had the chance to think about it, and while this revelation about Douglas is not good news, I'm grateful to be dragged so forcefully into Jamie's problems. Mine can wait.

  Douglas is our next-door neighbor, and his bedroom shares a wall with mine. Even though it's only been four days, I have a pretty good idea of how often he gets laid. The idea that my best friend is another ticky mark on his bedpost does not thrill me.

  Of course, from Jamie's perspective, he's a mark on her bedpost.

  "We were by the pool drinking wine, and then we got in the hot tub and then ..." She trails off, leaving "and then" to my imagination.

  "He's still there? Or are you at his place?"

  "God, no. I sent him home an hour ago."

  "Jamie ..."

  "What? I just needed to burn some energy. Trust me, it's good. I'm so mellow now you wouldn't even believe."

  I frown. Like a girl who collects stray puppies, Jamie brings home a lot of men. She doesn't, however, keep them around. Not even until morning. As her roommate, I find that convenient. There's nothing quite like meeting an unshaved, unshowered, half-naked man staring into your refrigerator at three in the morning. As her friend, however, I worry.

  She, in turn, worries about me for precisely the opposite reason. I've never brought a man home, much less kicked him out. As far as Jamie is concerned, that makes me subnormal.

  This, however, isn't the time to get into it with my best friend. But Douglas? She had to go and pick Douglas? "Am I going to have to avert my eyes every time I see him in the complex?"

  "He's cool," she says. "No big deal."

  I close my eyes and shake my head. The mere thought of being naked like that--emotionally and physically--overwhelms me. Not a big deal? The hell it's not.

  "How about you? Did you actually manage to form words this time?"

  I scowl. As my best friend since forever, Jamie knows a few too many of my secrets. I'd told her all about my ambiguous encounter with uber-hottie Damien Stark at the pageant reception. Her reaction had been typical Jamie--if I'd just opened my mouth and formed actual words, he would have ditched Carmela and had his way with me. I'd told her she was insane, but her words had been like tinder to my smoldering fantasy.

  "I talked to him," I admit now.

  "Oh, really?" Her voice rises with interest.

  "And he's coming to the presentation."

  "And ...?"

  I have to laugh. "That's it, Jamie. That was the point."

  "Oh. Well, okay, then. No, seriously, that's fabulous, Nik. You totally rocked it."

  When she puts it that way, I have to agree.

  "So what's he like now?"

  I consider the question. It's not an easy one to answer. "He's ... intense." Hot. Sexy. Surprising. Disturbing. No, it's not Stark that's disturbing--it's my reaction to him.

  "Intense?" Jamie parrots. "Like that's a revelation? I mean, the guy owns half the known universe. I hardly think he'd be all warm and fuzzy. More like dark and dangerous."

  I frown. Somehow, Jamie has summed up Damien Stark perfectly.

  "Anything else to report? How are the paintings? I won't ask if you've seen any celebrities. Any celebrity younger than Cary Grant, and you're clueless. I mean, you could probably trip over Bradley Cooper and not even know it."

  "Actually, Rip and Lyle are here, and they're being civil to each other despite their feud. It'll be interesting to see if the show gets picked up for another season."

  The silence at the other end of the line tells me I have scored big with that one, and I make a mental note to thank Evelyn. It's not easy to surprise my roommate.

  "You bitch," she finally says. "If you don't come back with Rip Carrington's autograph, I am so finding a new best friend."

  "I'll try," I promise. "Actually, you could come here. I kind of need a ride."

  "Because Carl keeled over and died from surprise when Stark said he'd do the meeting?"

  "Sort of. He left to go prep. The meeting's been bumped to tomorrow."

  "And you're still at the party, why?"

  "Stark wanted me to stay."

  "Oh, did he?"

  "It's not like that. He's looking to buy a painting. He wanted a female perspective."

  "And since you're the only female at the party ..."

  I remember Audrey Hepburn and feel confused. I'm most definitely not the only female at the party. So what is Stark's game?

  "I just need a ride," I snap, unfairly taking my irritation out on Jamie. "Can you come get me?"

  "You're serious? Carl left you stranded in Malibu? That's like an hour away. He didn't even offer to reimburse cab fare?"

  I hesitate a fraction of a second too long.

  "What?" she demands.

  "It's just that--well, Stark said he'd make sure I got home."

  "And what? His Ferrari's not good enough for you? You'd rather ride in my ten-year-old Corolla?"

  She has a point. It's Stark's fault I'm still here. Why should I inconvenience one of my friends--or fork over a buttload of money for cab fare--when he already said he'd get me home? Am I really that nervous about being alone with him?

  Yes, actually, I am. Which is ridiculous. Elizabeth Fairchild's daughter does not get nervous around men. Elizabeth Fairchild's daughter wraps men around her little finger. I may have spent my whole life trying to escape from under my mother's thumb, but that doesn't mean she didn't manage to drill her lessons in deep.

  "You're right," I say, even though the idea of Damien Stark wrapped around any woman's finger remains a little fuzzy. "I'll see you at home."

  "If I'm asleep, wake me up. I want to hear everything."

  "There's nothing to tell," I say.

  "Liar," she chides, then clicks off.

  I slide my phone into my purse and head back to the bar--now I want that champagne. I stand there holding my glass as I glance around the room. This time, I see Stark right away. Him and Audrey Hepburn. He's smiling, she's laughing, and I'm working myself up into quite a temper. I mean, he's the reason I'm stranded here, and yet he hasn't made any effort to speak to
me again, to apologize for the whole "be my decorating wench" fiasco, or to arrange a ride for me. If I have to call a cab I am absolutely going to send a bill to Stark International.

  Evelyn passes by, arm in arm with a man with hair so white he reminds me of Colonel Sanders. She pats him on the arm, murmurs something, then disengages herself. The colonel marches on as Evelyn eases up next to me. "Having a nice time?"

  "Of course," I say.

  She snorts.

  "I know," I say. "I'm a terrible liar."

  "Hell, honey, you weren't even putting any effort into that one."

  "I'm sorry. I'm just ..." I trail off and tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I'd curled it and pinned it up in a chignon. A few loose curls are supposed to hang free and frame my face. Right now, the damn thing is just annoying me.

  "He's inscrutable," Evelyn says.

  "Who?"

  She nods toward Damien, and I look in that direction. He's still talking with Audrey Hepburn, but I'm struck by the certainty that he had been watching me only moments earlier. I have nothing to base that on, though, and I'm frustrated, not knowing if the thought is wishful thinking or paranoia.

  "Inscrutable?" I repeat.

  "He's a hard man to figure out," Evelyn says. "I've known him since he was a boy--his father signed me to represent him when some damn breakfast cereal wanted his face on their television spots. As if Damien Stark with a sugar high was the way we wanted to go. No, I landed the boy some damn good endorsements, helped make him a goddamned household name. But most days I don't think I know him at all."

  "Why not?"

  "I told you, Texas. Inscrutable." She draws out each syllable, then punctuates the word with a shake of her head. " 'Course I don't fault him, not with the shit that was piled onto that poor kid. Who wouldn't end up a little bit damaged?"

  "You mean the fame? That must have been hard. He was so young." Stark won the Junior Grand Slam at fifteen, and that had pushed him into the stratosphere. But the press had latched onto him long before that. With his good looks and working-class background, he'd been plucked out of the flurry of hopefuls as the tennis circuit's golden boy.

  "No, no." Evelyn waves her hand as if dismissing the thought. "Damien knows how to handle the press. He's damn good at protecting his secrets, always has been." She eyes me, then laughs, as if to suggest she was only joking. But I don't think so. "Oh, honey, listen to me ramble. No, Damien Stark is just one of those dark, quiet types. He's like an iceberg, Texas. The deep parts are well hidden and what you do see is hard and a little bit cold."