Release Me (6 page)

I consider arguing, but I also remember his earlier comment—that if I was trying to find investors for Carl, I was doing a craptastic job of it. I tilt my head and nod to Ollie. “It’s okay.”

“You’re sure?” His voice is tight. Concerned.

“Seriously,” I say. “Go on home.”

He hesitates, then nods. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, but he’s looking at Stark as he says it. He’s gone into full big-brother mode, and I hear the message under the words.
And she better be there and fine or there’s going to be trouble
.

My imagination, I realize, is running wild.

He kisses my cheek and starts to head up the spiral staircase.

“Wait,” Stark calls, and Ollie pauses.

I hold my breath, wondering if I’m about to witness some testosterone-laden ritual. But all Stark does is reach out for the shoes that I’m still holding in my right hand. I hand them to him, confused until he steps closer and starts to gently ease me out of Ollie’s jacket.

“It’s okay,” Ollie says. “I’ll get it later.”

But I am already out of the jacket, having moved quickly so that I can recover the distance between me and Stark.

“No need,” Stark says, and his smile is bright and friendly as he hands Ollie the jacket.

Ollie hesitates a nanosecond, then takes it. He slips it on, keeping his eyes on me. “Be careful,” he says, then disappears up the dark, twisting stairs.

Careful?
What the fuck?

I glance at Stark to see if he is as bemused as I am, but it’s clear that his thoughts have not lingered on Ollie at all. No, he’s completely focused on me.

I snatch my shoes back. “Do we actually have any business to discuss? Because it seems to me that my business is downtown. With Carl. Preparing for a meeting I’ll be attending in just over sixteen hours.”

“The paintings,” he says easily. “I believe you were going to help me?”

“Your belief system is all screwed up. I recall quite clearly declining your request for help.”

“My mistake. I thought you’d changed your mind after I pointed out that I valued your opinion.”

“You thought I’d changed my mind?” I repeat. “And on what did you base that hypothesis? The way I walked away from you? The way I ignored you?”

He merely quirks a brow, letting me know that all my surreptitious glances toward him and Audrey Hepburn weren’t so surreptitious, after all.

He watches me, probably expecting a pithy comeback, but I’m not going to provide one. At this moment, silence is most definitely the best policy.

I tilt my head up to look at his face. The minimal illumination filtering down from Evelyn’s balcony casts his features in shadows. His eyes, however, seem to absorb the light. The amber one, fiery and hot. The other one black and ringed with molten lava, so dark and deep I feel as though I could fall in and get lost.
Windows to the soul
, I think and then shiver.

“You’re cold,” he says, then trails a finger down my bare arm. “You have goose bumps.”

Well if I didn’t before, I surely do now.…

“I was fine when I had a coat,” I say, and he bursts out laughing.
I like the sound of it, so free and easy and always unexpected.

He slips out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, ignoring my protests.

“We’re going back inside,” I say, shrugging it off and holding it out. “I’m fine, really.”

He takes my shoes from me, but ignores the coat. “Put it on. I don’t want you catching cold.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I snap, shoving my arms into the sleeves. “Do you always get what you want?”

His eyes widen, and I realize I’ve surprised him. “Yes,” he says.

Gotta give the guy points for honesty
.

“Fine. Let’s go inside. Look at some paintings. I’ll tell you what I like, and then you’ll do whatever you want.”

He’s looking at me with a somewhat baffled expression. “Excuse me?”

“You just don’t seem like the kind of guy who actually takes anybody’s advice.”

“You’re wrong, Nikki,” he says, my name sounding like milk chocolate in his mouth. “I consider very carefully any opinion I value.”

The heat coming off him is palpable. I no longer need the jacket. Hell, the damn jacket is stifling.

I look away, at the sand, at the ocean, at the sky. Anywhere but at this man. I’m twisted up in knots, but that’s not the problem. The problem is, I like the feeling.

“Nikki,” he says gently. “Look at me.”

I look without thinking, and there’s no Social Nikki between us. I’m as naked as if I’d stripped off my dress.

“That man you were with. Who is he to you?”

Blam!
Social Nikki is back on duty. I feel my face harden, my eyes grow cold. Damien Stark
is
like a spider, and I’m the foolish insect he’s going to devour.

I look away, but only for a second. When I turn back, I’m flashing the very same plastic smile that he saw on a stage six years ago. I should turn the wattage up and tell him that Ollie is none of his business.

But I don’t.

I’m not certain I understand the instinct that brings the answer to my lips, but it’s the one that I go with, and as soon as I’ve spoken, I turn my back to him and begin the walk up the stairs, my words lingering in the air behind me.

“Him? That’s Orlando McKee. We used to sleep together.”

This isn’t exactly true, but it’s close enough. It’s a story that I can spin and weave without losing the thread of reality.

It’s another layer of armor, and where Damien Stark is concerned, I need as much protection as I can get.

He is right behind me on the stairs, but they are too narrow for us to stand side by side.

“Nikki,” he says, his voice like a command.

I stop and turn to face him, looking down from my position three steps above him. It’s an interesting perspective. I don’t think there are many people who’ve had the opportunity to look down on Damien Stark.

“What is Mr. McKee to you now?”

I’m probably imagining it, but I think I see something vulnerable in Stark’s eyes.

“He’s a friend,” I say. “A very good friend.”

I think that’s relief on his face, and the juxtaposition of those two emotions—relief and vulnerability—make my breath hitch.

They disappear quickly, though, and his “Are you sleeping with him now?” comes out decidedly frosty.

I press my fingertips to my temple. His shifts 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 amusement. “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 ass just enough to make it look damn hot in this dress.”

The corner of his mouth twitches with amusement. “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 bitch 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 amusement 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?