Release Me: A Novel Part 10

I almost ask if she was listening when I described the whole phone-s.e.x-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 a.s.s. He made you come, for Christ's sake. And let's not forget the foot ma.s.sage. Holy c.r.a.p, girl, I'd totally f.u.c.k a guy who gave me a foot ma.s.sage. h.e.l.l, I'd probably marry him."

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

"Not every guy is an a.s.shole like Kurt," she says, and for Jamie her voice is surprisingly gentle. "You can't keep pretending you're wearing a d.a.m.n chast.i.ty 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 Fernando Valley is an absolutely idiotic concept, Jamie has converted it to a bar. Bottles instead of logs. Gla.s.ses on the mantel. She grabs the bottle of k.n.o.b Creek. "Want some?"

I do, but I shake my head. I've had enough of alcohol for the night. "I'm tired," I say, pus.h.i.+ng 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 h.e.l.l 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 a.s.saulted 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s are calloused and strong, yet so tender I want to cry. He eases them down, touching every inch of me, tracing my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 s.h.i.+ft. 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 d.a.m.n phone."

Frazzled, I reach for it, and see Carl's name on the display. I s.n.a.t.c.h 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-f.u.c.king-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 s.h.i.+tload of work to do. I can't get the f.u.c.king 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, p.r.o.nto. 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, h.e.l.lo? 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 pa.s.s 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 h.e.l.l 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 surrept.i.tiously shows me my panties?

Enough.

I can't think about it anymore or I'll go crazy, so I focus on finis.h.i.+ng my shower and getting dressed. I choose a black skirt, white blouse, and matching jacket. Not a suit, because this is Sat.u.r.day and because I'm working in the tech field and clean jeans are about as fas.h.i.+onable 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 as 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 a.s.signed s.p.a.ce 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.shat 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 pa.s.s 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. h.e.l.l, I want to be Damien Stark. And to get there, I need to know how to pull together a kick-a.s.s presentation that will hook an underwriter for any one of the projects I've been toying with since my last year at UT.

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 f.u.c.k-ups. No slips. A well-oiled s.h.i.+p." He narrows his eyes at Dave. "Go order up some sandwiches for lunch, but I swear to G.o.d, if anyone goes to that meeting with mustard on their s.h.i.+rt, I am firing his a.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 Sat.u.r.days, 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 s.e.x 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 gla.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.days 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 a.s.sistant. 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 s.h.i.+fting 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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce const.i.tutes 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 finis.h.i.+ng 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 s.p.a.ce, the air s.h.i.+fts. 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 s.h.i.+rt. The top b.u.t.ton 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.