Release Me: A Novel Part 5

I press my fingertips to my temple. His s.h.i.+fts from cold to hot to cold again are dizzying. "Am I on some sort of game show? Have you and your millions invested in a new version of Candid Camera? A spin-off of Punk'd?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're nice, then you're ice."

"Am I?"

"Don't even pretend not to know what I'm talking about. One minute you're so rude I want to slap your face-"

"And yet you don't."

I scowl, but otherwise ignore the interruption. "And then you turn on a dime and you're all warm and fuzzy."

His brow lifts. "Fuzzy?"

"Point taken. Fuzzy is not a word anyone should use to describe you. Forget warm and fuzzy. We'll go with hot and intense."

"Intense." He murmurs the word, making it sound much more sensual than I had intended. "I like the sound of that."

At the moment, so do I.

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. "The point is, you're dizzying."

He looks at me with unabashed amus.e.m.e.nt. "I like the sound of that, too."

"Dizzying and exasperating. And impertinent."

"Impertinent?" he repeats. He doesn't smile, but I swear I hear laughter in his voice.

"You ask questions you have no right to ask."

"And you've steered this conversation in a very elegant circle. But you still haven't answered my impertinent question."

"I would have thought that a man as intelligent as you are would realize that I was avoiding it."

"A man doesn't get where I've gotten by allowing details to remain ignored. I'm both diligent and persistent, Ms. Fairchild." He has me trapped, locked tight in his sights. "When I seek to acquire something, I learn everything I can about it, and then I pursue it wholeheartedly."

I have to pause a bit to remember how to form words. "Do you?"

"I believe there's an interview with me in last month's Forbes. I'm certain the reporter outlined my tenacity."

"I'll be sure to pick up a copy."

"I'll have my office send you one. Perhaps then you'll understand just how persistent I can be."

"I already understand it. What I don't get is why you're so fascinated with who I'm sleeping with. Why exactly does that interest you?" I'm treading on dangerous territory, and I suddenly understand that old adage about flirting with danger.

He climbs a step, putting his body in much closer proximity to mine. "There are a number of things about you that fascinate me."

Oh my. I move carefully up to the next level. "I'm an open book, Mr. Stark." I ascend one more step.

"You and I both know that's not true, Ms. Fairchild. But someday ..."

He trails off, and though I know better, I have to ask. "Someday, what?"

"Someday you will be open for me, Ms. Fairchild. In so very many ways."

I want to respond, but I've lost the power of speech. Damien Stark wants me. More than that, he wants to peel back the layers and learn my secrets.

The idea is terrifying, and yet also strangely appealing.

Discomfited, I take another backward step up toward the balcony, then wince. Immediately, Stark is at my side. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Something sharp on the step."

He looks down at my still-bare feet.

Sheepishly, I hold out the strappy sandals with the three-inch heels.

"Very nice," he says. "Perhaps you should put them on."

"Nice?" I repeat. "They aren't nice. They're astounding. They cup my foot, show off my pedicure, slim my leg, and lift my a.s.s just enough to make it look d.a.m.n hot in this dress."

The corner of his mouth twitches with amus.e.m.e.nt. "I recall. Truly, they are amazing shoes."

"They also happen to be my first and only purchase from my frivolous Los Angeles shopping splurge."

"Well worth the damage to your checking account, I'm sure."

"Totally. But they are an absolute b.i.t.c.h to walk in. And now that I've taken them off I really don't know if I can get them back on again. No, correction. I don't know if I can get them on again and actually walk."

"I see your dilemma. Fortunately, I've made a career out of coming up with solutions to such knotty problems."

"Is that so? Well, please. Enlighten me."

"You can stay here on the steps. You can go inside barefoot. You can put the shoes back on and suffer."

"Somehow I expected something better from the great Damien Stark. If that's all the brainpower it takes to become the head of a corporate empire, I should have jumped all over that a long time ago."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Staying here won't work," I say. "For one thing, it's cold. For another, I want to say goodbye to Evelyn."

"Mmm." He nods and frowns. "You're so right. Clearly I didn't fully examine the conundrum."

"That's what makes it a conundrum," I say. "As for going barefoot, Elizabeth Fairchild's daughter does not go barefoot at social events, no matter how much she might want to. I'm pretty sure it's a genetic trait."

"Then your choice is clear. You're going to have to wear the shoes."

"And suffer? No thank you. I don't do pain."

My words are flippant and not entirely true. He stares at me long and hard, and for some reason, Ollie's parting words come back to me: Be careful. Then his face clears and he's looking at me with amus.e.m.e.nt once again. I about melt with relief.

"There is one more option."

"Ah, see? You were holding out on me."

"I can pick you up and carry you into the party."

"Right," I say. "I'm just going to slip these puppies back on and suffer." I sit down on the step and slide my feet into the sandals. It's not pleasant. The shoes aren't broken in, and my feet are in full protest mode. I enjoyed the walk on the beach, but I should have known that everything comes with a price.

I stand, wince a little, and continue up the stairs. Stark is behind me, and when we reach the balcony he moves to my side and takes my arm. Then he leans in so close I feel his breath on my ear. "Some things are worth the pain. I'm glad you understand that."

I turn sharply to look at him. "What?"

"I'm simply saying that I'm glad you decided to put the shoes back on."

"Even though that meant I rejected your offer to throw me over your shoulder caveman-style and cart me around the party?"

"I don't recall mentioning a caveman carry, though the idea is undeniably intriguing." He pulls out his iPhone and starts to type something.

"What are you doing?"

"Making a note," he says.

I laugh and shake my head. "I'll say this, Mr. Stark. Whatever else you are, you're always a surprise." I look him up and down. "I don't suppose you have a pair of black flip-flops hidden on your person? Because that would be the kind of surprise I could really use."

"I'm afraid not," he says. "But in the future I may have to carry a pair just to be safe. I never realized what valuable currency a comfortable pair of shoes can be."

It occurs to me that I'm in full flirt-mode with Damien Stark. The man who has been hot and cold all night. The man who bleeds power and commands an empire and could snap his fingers and have any woman he wants. Right now, that woman is me.

It's a bewildering realization, but also flattering and, yes, exciting.

"The truth is I know exactly how you feel," he says.

I gape at him, wondering if he's been reading my thoughts.

"I've always hated tennis shoes. I used to practice in my bare feet. It made my coach crazy."

"Really?" I find this tidbit into Stark's real life fascinating. "But didn't you endorse a brand?"

"The only brand I could stand."

"That's a nice little rhyme. They could have used it as the tagline."

"It's a pity they didn't have you on their marketing team." He reaches out and brushes his thumb along the line of my jaw. My stomach quivers and I exhale, a single soft moan. His eyes go to my mouth and I think that he's going to kiss me and I absolutely do not want him to kiss me and, dammit, why isn't he kissing me yet?

Then the balcony door opens, and a couple emerges, arm in arm. Damien pulls his hand back and the spell is shattered. I want to scream at the couple, and not just because I've been left feeling hot and needy. No, something's been lost. I'm liking the Damien Stark who laughs and teases in the dark. Who flirts so softly and yet so intently. Who looks at me with eyes that let me see.

But our moment is gone. And if we go inside, I'm certain his mask will go back on. I'm even more certain my own will.

I almost suggest we go back down the stairs to the beach, but he's holding the door open for me, and his face is all hard lines and angles again. I step past him into the room, something tight and sad knotting inside me.

The party is still going strong. Possibly even stronger now that the guests are on their second, third, or fourth drink. The room is stuffy, almost claustrophobic, and I slip out of Stark's jacket and hand it back to him. He runs his palm over the silk lining. "You're warm," he says, then slips it on, the movement entirely normal and inexplicably erotic.

A waitress materializes beside me, her tray full of sparkling wine. I take a flute and gulp it back. Before she can edge away, I replace my empty gla.s.s and take a fresh one.

"For medicinal purposes," I say to Stark, who has also taken a gla.s.s, but has yet to take a sip. I am not so hesitant, and I down half of my gla.s.s in one long swallow. The bubbles seem to rise straight to my head, making me a little bit giddy. It's a nice feeling, and one I'm not used to. I drink, sure. But not champagne, and not very often. But I feel vulnerable tonight. Vulnerable and needy. With any luck, the alcohol will quench the ache. Either that, or it will give me the courage to act on it.

Oh, no.

I almost toss the champagne aside. Even with the aid of tiny bubbles, I'm not going there.

As I tilt my head back to take another sip, I catch Stark's eyes on me. They're dark and knowing and predatory, and I suddenly want to take a step backward. I clutch the stem of my gla.s.s harder and stay rooted to the spot.

The corner of his mouth quirks up with amus.e.m.e.nt as he leans in closer to me. I breathe in the clean, crisp scent of his cologne, like the woods after a rain. He brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, and I wonder why I don't melt right then.

My body is hyperaware. My skin. My pulse. I tingle all over, and every tiny hair on my arms and the back of my neck is standing up, as if I'm in the middle of a lightning storm. It's his power I'm feeling, of course, and I feel it most strongly in the increasingly demanding flesh between my thighs.

"Is there something on your mind, Ms. Fairchild?" I can hear the tease in his voice, and it irks me that I am so transparent.

That bite of irritation is good-it draws me out of the haze. And, because I'm emboldened by the champagne, I look straight at him when I answer. "You are, Mr. Stark."

His lips part with surprise, but he recovers himself quickly. "I'm very glad to hear it." I'm only halfway aware of his words. I'm too focused on his mouth. It's gorgeous, wide, and sensual.

He takes another step closer, and the storm between us grows more intense, the air full and heavy. I can almost see the sparks.

"You should know, Ms. Fairchild, that before the night is over, I'm going to kiss you."

"Oh." I'm not sure if my word is an expression of surprise or a.s.sent. I wonder what those lips would feel like on mine. His tongue forcing my mouth open. The heated exploration as hands clutch and bodies press together.

"I'm glad you're looking forward to it." His words jolt me from the fantasy, and this time I do back away. One step, then another, until the storm between us calms and I can think clearly again.

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea," I say, because fantasy is all good and well, but this can only go so far, and it's important that I remind myself of that.

"On the contrary. I think it's one of my better ideas."

I swallow. To be honest, I want him to follow through right then, but I'm saved from my foolish wish by Stark himself. Or rather, by his reputation. Apparently Carl isn't the only one who believes in the power of networking, and we're joined by a cadre of people wanting to bask in his circle. Investors, inventors, tennis fans, single women. They come, they talk, and Stark politely sends each on his way. The only constant at his side is me. Me and a never-ending stream of waiters with more champagne, chilled so as to take the edge off the fire that's building in me.

The room, however, is starting to sway a bit, and I tap Stark on the arm, interrupting his conversation with a robotics engineer who's well into hard-pitch mode. "Excuse me," I say, then aim myself toward a small bench on the side of the room.

Stark catches up to me so quickly that I imagine the engineer still pitching, unaware that his quarry has escaped.

"You should slow down," he says in a voice that suggests I'm on his staff.

But I'm not on his staff. "I'm fine," I say. "I have a plan." I don't mention that the plan involves sitting down and never getting up again.

"If it involves getting so rip-roaring drunk that you have no choice but to get off your feet by laying down, then I'd say your plan is coming along quite nicely."