Release Me: A Novel Part 3

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 h.e.l.l 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. s.e.xy. 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 b.i.t.c.h," 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 b.u.mped 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 b.u.t.tload 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.ses 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."

"h.e.l.l, 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 d.a.m.n 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 d.a.m.n 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 d.a.m.n good endors.e.m.e.nts, helped make him a G.o.dd.a.m.ned 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 s.h.i.+t 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-cla.s.s 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 d.a.m.n 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."

She chuckles, amused at her own joke, then waves at someone who's caught her attention. I glance toward Damien, looking for evidence of the wounded child that Evelyn has recalled, but all I see is unerring strength and self-confidence. Am I seeing a mask? Or am I really looking at the man?

"What I'm trying to say," Evelyn continues, "is that you shouldn't take it personally. The way he acted, I mean. I doubt he meant to be rude. He was probably just off in his head and didn't even realize what he was doing."

I, of course, have moved past the snub at our meeting, but Evelyn doesn't realize that. My current issues with Damien Stark are wide and varied-ranging from the simple problem of a ride home to more complicated emotions that I'm not inclined to a.n.a.lyze.

"You were right about Rip and Lyle," I say, because she keeps looking in Stark's direction, and I want to head off any suggestion that we edge our way into that conversation. "My roommate is in awe that I'm in the same room with them."

"Well, come on, then. I'll introduce you."

The two stars-both polished and s.h.i.+ned within an inch of their lives-are perfectly polite and perfectly dull. I have nothing to say to them. I don't even know what their show is about. Evelyn can't seem to wrap her head around the possibility that anyone could either not care or not know about all things Hollywood. She seems to think I'm merely being coy and is about to leave me alone with these two.

Social Nikki would smile and make polite small talk. But Social Nikki is getting a bit frayed around the edges, and instead, I reach out, snagging a bit of Evelyn's sleeve before she escapes too far. She looks back at me, her brows raised in question. I have nothing to say. Panic bubbles in me; Social Nikki has completely left the building.

And then I see it-my excuse. My salvation. It's so unexpected-so completely out of place-that I half wonder if I'm not hallucinating. "That man," I say, pointing to a skinny twenty-something with long, wavy hair and wire-framed gla.s.ses. He looks like he belongs at Woodstock, not an art show, and I hold my breath, expecting the apparition to vanish. "Is that Orlando McKee?"

"You know Orlando?" she asks, then answers her own question. "Of course. The friend who works for Charles. But where did you two meet?" She nods goodbye to Lyle and Rip, who could care less about our departure; they're back to arguing between themselves and smiling brightly at the women who sidle in close for a snapshot.

"We grew up together," I explain as Evelyn steers me through the throng.

The truth is our families lived next door to each other until Ollie went off to college, and even though he's two years older than me, we were inseparable until Ollie turned twelve and was s.h.i.+pped off to boarding school in Austin. I had been beside myself with envy.

I haven't seen Ollie for years, but he's the kind of friend that you don't need to talk to every day. Months can go by, and then he'll call me out of the blue, and we pick up the conversation like it had never stopped. He and Jamie are my closest friends in the world and I am beyond giddy that he's here, right when I need him so desperately.

We're close now, but he hasn't noticed us. He's talking about some television show with another guy, this one in jeans and a sport coat over a pale pink b.u.t.ton-down. Very California. Ollie's hands are moving, because that's the way he talks, and when he flails one hand my direction, he glances that way out of reflex. I see the moment that realization hits him. He freezes, his hand drops, and he turns to face me, his arms going out wide.

"Nikki? My G.o.d, you look amazing." He pulls me into a tight Ollie hug, then pushes me back, his hands on my shoulders as he looks me up and down.

"Do I pa.s.s inspection?"

"When have you not?"

"Why aren't you in New York?"

"The firm transferred me back last week. I was going to call you this weekend. I couldn't remember when you were moving out here." He pulls me into another spontaneous hug, and I'm grinning so wide my mouth is starting to hurt. "d.a.m.n, it's good to see you."

"I take it you two know each other," the guy in jeans says drolly.

"Sorry," Ollie says. "Nikki, this is Jeff. We work together at Bender, Twain & McGuire."

"What he means is that I work for him," Jeff says. "I'm a summer a.s.sociate. Orlando is a third year now, and they love him there. I think Maynard's about ready to make him a partner."

"Very funny," Ollie says, but he looks pleased.

"Look at you," I say. "My little guppy's grown into a full-fledged shark."

"Ah-ah. You know the rules. For every lawyer joke you make, I get to make two dumb blonde jokes."

"I take it back."

"Come on, Jeff," Evelyn says. "Let's let these two catch up. We'll go find our own trouble to get into."

It would be polite to tell them not to bother, but neither one of us does. We're too wrapped up in reminiscing, and I'm too happy to have Ollie beside me.

We talk about everything and nothing as we head for the door, taking our conversation outside by silent agreement. I'm completely absorbed, warmed by memories and Ollie's familiar face. But as we reach the door, I turn back and look at the room. I'm not sure why I do. Maybe it's just a reflex, but I think it's something more. I think I'm looking for someone. For him.

Sure enough, my eyes find Damien Stark right away. He's no longer with Audrey Hepburn. Now he's talking with a short, balding man. He's focused and attentive. But his head lifts and his eyes find me.

And in that singular moment, I know that if he asked me to blow off my friend and stay in the room with him, I would do it.

d.a.m.n him, and d.a.m.n me, but I would stay with Damien Stark.

5.

I wear Ollie's jacket and hold my shoes by the straps as we walk along the private beach behind Evelyn's house. I'm certain we're not supposed to be out here, but I don't care. I swing my foot through the water gaily, sending a spray of sea drops scattering. It feels mischievous. It feels good.

"How's Courtney?" I ask. "Is she glad you're back?" That's a dangerous question where Ollie is concerned. Courtney is his on-again/off-again girlfriend. "On again" because she's amazing and Ollie would be an idiot to do something stupid and screw it up. "Off again" because Ollie has crossed that idiot line more than once.

"She's engaged," he says.

"Oh." I can't keep the disappointment out of my voice. I should be consoling and tell Ollie he'll find someone else amazing, but all I can think is that he's screwed up.

Suddenly, he's laughing. "To me, doofus."

"Oh, thank G.o.d!" I b.u.mp him playfully with my shoulder. "I thought you'd blown it."