Release Me: A Novel Part 32

He nuzzles my hair. "We can send Blaine out for doughnuts and I'll forget the bike ride."

"No way, dude." I laugh and push him playfully away. "I'm on a schedule today, remember. I need time to get dressed, read some of the research on the company. All those girl-looking-for-gainful-employment kinds of things."

"I'll hire you right now. Gainful-employment conundrum solved."

"No. A million times no."

"Can't blame a guy for trying. Go." He pulls me in for a long, slow kiss. "I'll see you on the flip side."

"Yes," I say. "You will."

I spend three solid hours at Innovative Resources, and I'm pretty sure I meet every person who works there from the janitor on up to the owner of the company, Bruce Tolley.

I'm a wreck at first, nervous and fumbling. But I slide into a groove pretty quickly, and Mr. Tolley and I get into a conversational rhythm. He seems sharp-and everything I've read about the company suggests that my impression is correct. More important, he doesn't display any of Carl's egotistical and bizarre management traits.

In other words, Bruce is interested in the work, not my t.i.ts or my a.s.s.

I really can't help but like the guy.

As we talk, he takes me through the offices, pointing out the cafeteria, the employee gym, the break rooms, and even a supply closet. Honestly, it seems like overkill for a first interview. Or it does until we wrap it up at the front conference room and he extends an offer.

I, of course, tell him that I'll have to think about it, which I do for a grand total of three seconds before enthusiastically accepting.

I manage not to break into a song and dance routine while I'm still in the building, but once I'm outside, I swing my way around a signpost, then pull out my iPhone and call Damien.

I'm completely b.u.mmed when I get his voice mail.

Undaunted, I send a text: Got it! Start next week! XXOO His reply is immediate: Knew you would. Congrats. x.x.xOOO. P.S. Did you break any rules? Ps or Bs?

It takes me a second to translate, but when I get it, my cheeks heat: No panties, and I thought of you. No bra, and I kept my jacket b.u.t.toned.

He comes back right away with: Perfect on all counts.

I type back another one: But now I'm all wound up. Lack of Ps and adrenaline rush. Are you free?

This time the reply takes a full minute to come through: Wish I was. I know how to unwind you.

I grin and type: You could call me right now. You do some pretty good unwinding by phone.

His reply makes me smile even wider: I could, but in a meeting in Century City with some execs from Tokyo. Not sure they would understand. Back in office soon. Will see you later. All of you, baby. In the meantime, imagine me, touching you....

No problem there-imagining Damien's touch has become one of my favorite pastimes. Right behind actually experiencing his touch.

When I get home and find Jamie in the apartment, I feel less cheated that Damien is unavailable. Jamie is, of course, sufficiently enthusiastic, and I get to hang on to my new job high.

"So what should we do to celebrate?" she asks.

"A movie?"

"No way. I want the dirt on you and Mr. Moneybags. Sus.h.i.+?"

"Perfect."

Since I am fed up with heels and skirts and tailored blouses, I head into my room to change into jeans while Jamie does the same. I hesitate before pulling them on, then toss them aside. I put on a denim skirt and sandals-and no underwear. Even when Damien isn't around, rules are rules.

The bra's easy. I pair my skirt with a backless halter and call it a fas.h.i.+on choice. "You almost ready?" I call to Jamie.

"Five minutes," she promises, then, "Hey, did you see today's paper?"

"Why?"

"It's on the coffee table. The Life and Style section. Check it out."

I shrug, then settle onto the couch and pick up the paper. I flip through, but nothing much catches my attention until I get close to the end. And then what catches my attention is me.

Or a picture of me. Me with Damien to be precise.

It's an article on the Stark Educational Foundation and the charity event. A double-page spread with candid shots of the guests. I smile as I scan the photos, looking for Blaine or Evelyn or Ollie.

I don't find them, but I do see Giselle. And my fingers stiffen when I see the man she's standing next to-Bruce Tolley.

What the-?

Damien didn't tell me he knew my new boss. But maybe he doesn't. Maybe it's just a coincidence that Bruce is standing with Giselle.

My attempt at self-delusion is quickly foiled when I glance at the caption. Turns out Bruce is Giselle's husband. The husband that Damien had c.o.c.ktails with the very first night we met. And Damien hadn't said a word when I told him I was interviewing with Innovative, or just now for that matter.

What the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l does that mean?

Nothing good, that's for d.a.m.n sure, and I feel a little queasy as this oddity roils around inside me, mixing with Ollie's fears.

s.h.i.+t.

I grab my cell phone and start to call him, but I end the call before I finish dialing. This isn't a phone call kind of conversation. For better or worse, I'm heading to him.

"James," I shout. Now that my mind's made up, I'm not going to hesitate. "I've got to go. Sorry about the sus.h.i.+."

I don't wait for her to answer, and as the door's slamming behind me, I hear her surprised, "What? What?" echoing behind me.

My mind is either too blank or too full during the drive to Stark's office. All I know is that there's not a coherent thought in my head. When I get to Stark Tower, I ask Joe if Stark's back, and am told he's not.

"Fine," I say. "I'm going to wait for him in the penthouse. Tell him Ms. Fairchild wants to see him the minute he returns."

Joe looks a little taken aback, but I just march to the elevator, leaving him to call up and relay my demands to Stark's overly efficient staff.

The elevator that opens isn't the one I rode up in with Carl and the boys. It's Stark's private elevator. I a.s.sume that Sylvia has sent it down for me and step on, feeling powerful and in control. Yes, indeed, Stark is about to get a piece of my mind.

My exuberant purpose fades a little when the elevator doors open not on the office, but into Stark's Tower Apartment. Suddenly I feel a little intimidated.

I consider staying in the elevator and pus.h.i.+ng the alarm b.u.t.ton until the opposite set of doors open, but I don't go through with it. Instead, I step out into the apartment and take a deep breath. As I do, the elevator doors close behind me.

My breath hitches, and I turn and press the call b.u.t.ton again, feeling suddenly, weirdly nervous.

The doors don't open.

Apparently, I'll be staying here until Stark returns.

Right. Okay. No problem.

I've been here once, so I head on in, then grab myself a Diet c.o.ke out of the refrigerator behind the wet bar. I take it into the living area and try to sit and wait, but I can't. I'm up and pacing in seconds, too full of nerves and anger to sit still.

I know I shouldn't, but I explore the apartment. Then again, why the h.e.l.l shouldn't I? Stark knows all sorts of s.h.i.+t about me. At the very least, I want to know what his bedroom looks like.

I'm surprised when I find it, and yet I'm not. It's a simple room. One wall showcases a low wooden dresser with clean lines and recessed pulls. Another wall is dominated by a pair of elegant French doors that open onto a bathroom. As is Damien's style, a third wall is made entirely of windows looking out over the expanse of Los Angeles. The fourth wall features a bed.

Unlike the bed in the Malibu house, this one has no frame. It's low to the ground and is made up with crisp white sheets. A deep blue blanket is tossed across it, but other than that there is no spread or cover. There are two pillows, also encased in white. And although there is no headboard per se, a section of the wall has been paneled in what looks like a deep mahogany. It acts as a faux headboard and ensures that the bed is the room's focal point.

It's simple and elegant and yet there's something a little sad about the room. It's like a mask, I think. Revealing only what Damien wants to be revealed.

I wonder what women he's brought here, and then I s.h.i.+ver a little, because I have not been one of them and somehow, that makes me feel special.

"Nikki?"

I jump. I'd been so preoccupied I hadn't registered his approach. I turn to face him. He's leaning casually against the hallway wall. He's in suit trousers, but he's removed the jacket and tie, and the first two b.u.t.tons of his s.h.i.+rt are undone. He looks deliciously s.e.xy, and I want to slap him for distracting me from my purpose.

I don't speak, and I see the concern edge onto his face. "Is everything okay? What's happened?"

"Why didn't you tell me about Bruce?"

His brows rise. He actually looks surprised by the question. "What should I have told you?"

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me? s.h.i.+t, Damien, you're the reason I got the offer."

"I pulled strings so that Bruce knew you were in the market," he says sharply. "But that's it. You got it because you're d.a.m.n good at what you do. Because your credentials are stellar. Because you're smart and hardworking and you deserve it."

I c.o.c.k my head and look at him, because that is a load of bulls.h.i.+t. "And how exactly do you know all that about me? From watching me pose naked? From f.u.c.king me?"

"I see you, Nikki."

"Yeah, well, maybe that's because you've been looking for such a long time."

His eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"

"At Evelyn's party, for one. You were so p.i.s.sed at me for being Carl's a.s.sistant. You gave a better rundown of my credentials than I could. How did you know so much about me? It wasn't in my fellows.h.i.+p file. So how, Damien?"

"I've followed your academic career. I've talked with your professors. I've watched you blossom."

"I-" He's knocked me off kilter with the matter-of-fact nature of his confession. "But why?"

He says nothing.

"Damien, why?" I hear panic creep into my voice.

"Because I want you," he finally says, and the heat in his voice curls through me so vividly that the panic fades and I have to force myself to concentrate. "I have since I met you at the pageant."

My mind is spinning. "But-but why not say something back then?"

His small smile gives away nothing. "I can be a very patient man when the goal is worth waiting for."

"I-" I don't know what to say. My mind is spinning with questions. I want to ask why he's so certain I'm worth it, but the best I can manage is, "Why me?"

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "I told you that, too. We're kindred spirits. And you're strong, Nikki. There's a core of strength and confidence in you that's d.a.m.n s.e.xy."

I don't meet his eyes. As he always does, he understood the heart of my question. "Have you not noticed the scars?" I ask. "I'm not strong, I'm weak." And I can't shake the fear that it's because I'm weak that he wants me. Damien likes to be the one in control, after all.

"Weak?" He's staring at me like I've gone a little crazy. "The h.e.l.l you are. You're not weak, Nikki. You're powerful. You're a survivor. When I hold you, I can feel the power in you. It's like holding a live wire."

He moves closer, then cups my face gently in his palm. "That's why I want you, baby. I'm not weak, either. Why would I want a woman who is?"

I tremble. He sees in me what I find so attractive in him. Power. Confidence. Ability.

But are those really my traits, or is he only seeing the Nikki I show the world? Or is that Nikki part of me, too?

"You know so much about me, and I hardly know you," I say. "Do you know this is the first time I've even seen your bedroom?"

"There's not much to see."

"That's not the point." I tilt my head to look up at him, and find his eyes fixed hard on my face.

"Nikki, I need to know that we're okay."

I have to fight not to nod. I so desperately want everything to be okay between me and Damien. But it's going to take more than just wants and wishes. "Will you try?" I ask. "Try to share more with me?"

"I've shared more with you than I have with any woman," he says.

I think about what he's told me about his dad and his tennis career. "I know. I just-I just really want to know you. Does that make sense?" I don't say that I know he has secrets in his past; it is those secrets I want him to share. I force myself to smile brightly. "Unlike some people, I don't have the resources to find out on my own."

"I thought you had Wikipedia," he deadpans.

I make a face, and he bends down to kiss my nose. It's playful and erotic and I realize that my fears have evaporated. Has he soothed them? Or am I simply unable to think clearly when I'm close to this man?

"It's not easy for me," he says, the intensity of his words surprising me. "I've never wanted to share the bits and pieces of my life before."

"Do you want to now?" My words are a whisper, as if truly voicing them will kill that little bit of hope.

He strokes my cheek, making me tremble. "Yes."

The relief that floods my body has a sensual, fiery quality. "Then you'll try?"