"Thank you all for meeting here. On the weekends I like to work out of the penthouse. The change of pace reminds me that it's time to kick back a little." He turns to his two companions and introduces them as Preston Rhodes, the new head of acquisitions, and Mac Talbot, a new member of the product acquisition team. Then Stark shakes Brian's and Dave's hands, taking the time to chat briefly with each. They still look nervous, but I think that he's soothed them enough that neither of the boys will botch the presentation by pushing a wrong b.u.t.ton with a shaky finger.

He greets me next. Acceptable, polite, professional. But when he pulls his hand away, there's the slightest curve of his finger, so that he gently strokes my palm. Maybe it's my imagination, but I choose to take it as an acknowledgment that last night happened, but that today is only about the presentation.

All that in one little touch. I smile, and as I take my seat at the table, I realize that I'm much calmer. Whether he intended it to or not, Stark's touch has soothed me.

Finally, he shakes Carl's hand and greets him as if they're the best of friends. They chat about vintage LPs-apparently Carl collects them-and the weather and the traffic on the 405. His intent is clear-he's putting Carl at ease, and he's done it so skillfully I can't help but admire his technique. Finally, Stark takes a seat at the conference table, but not at the head. Instead, he sits opposite me, his long legs stretched out. He gestures to the head of the table and tells Carl to begin whenever he's ready.

I've seen the presentation so many times that I mostly tune it out, focusing instead on Stark's reaction. The technology really is amazing. Video footage of athletes is a.n.a.lyzed using a series of proprietary algorithms that translate anatomical movement into spatial data sets. Stats from each player are mapped against the data. Then, taking into account the player's particular body structure and metrics, the software provides concrete suggestions for improving performance. But what is truly revolutionary is that those suggestions are demonstrated in holographic form so that the athletes and their coaches can see the actual position adjustments necessary for improvement.

Every article I've read about Stark mentions how brilliant he is, but today I get to see that intellect in action. He asks all the right questions from theoretical to applied to marketing and sales. When Carl raves and crows instead of letting the product speak for itself, Stark shuts that down so skillfully that I don't think Carl even notices. He's direct and to the point, efficient without being rude, firm without being patronizing. The man may have made his original fortune on a tennis court, but as I watch him, I have no doubt that business and science are in his blood.

Stark asks questions of all of us, including Brian and Dave, who gape and mumble but manage to articulate responses under Stark's easy but firm control of the conversation.

He turns to me next and asks a technical question about one of the key equations at the heart of the primary algorithm. I can see Carl out of the corner of my eye, and I'm pretty sure he's about to have a heart attack. This question is very firmly outside of my job description. But I've done my homework, and I use the virtual whiteboard to show Stark the mathematical underpinnings of the equation. I even go so far as to address the antic.i.p.ated consequences of a few hypothetical adjustments that Stark suggests. At the head of the table, Carl sags in relief.

I've obviously impressed my boss. But what's more satisfying is that I've impressed Stark. I can't say the satisfaction rises to the same level as last night, but it comes pretty d.a.m.n close.

When the meeting finally wraps up, I can tell that Carl is having a h.e.l.l of a time playing the cool, calm professional. He knows too well that the whole thing went over fabulously. Stark's interested in the product and impressed by the team. In this business, it doesn't get much better than that.

We're just about to start the round of goodbyes and handshakes when Ms. Peters steps in, her expression tightly efficient. "I apologize for interrupting, Mr. Stark, but you asked me to inform you if Mr. Padgett returned to the building."

"He's here now?" I watch as Stark's expression shifts from casual and calm to hard and dangerous.

"Security just called up. I a.s.sume you'd like to speak to them?"

Stark nods, then turns to face us. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. There's a situation that demands my attention. I'll be in touch next week." He glances at Ms. Peters. "If you could see our guests out?"

"Of course, sir."

His eyes meet mine, but they are unreadable. And then he steps out of the conference room and disappears down the hall. The sense of loss from his departure surprises me, but I say my goodbyes to his colleagues, then turn my attention to helping Brian pack one of the cases, all the while afraid that everyone in the room can read my expression.

After Ms. Peters has put us on the elevator and the door has firmly closed, Carl does such a funky little jig that I can't help but laugh. "That was great," I say. "Thank you so much for letting me be here for this."

Carl spreads his arms in a magnanimous gesture. "Hey, we're a team. And we all kicked some a.s.s." The elevator doors open onto the lobby, and Carl swings his arms jovially around Brian's and Dave's shoulders. They valiantly try to move with their boss and still drag the rolling cases. I'm about to take pity on them when I hear my name.

I look up and see Joe the security guard gesturing toward me. "Ms. Fairchild? If you have a moment?" He's holding a phone to his ear.

"Yes?" I say, hurrying to the guard desk.

Joe holds up a finger in a just a moment gesture. I glance sideways at Carl, who's looking at me with an unmistakable what the f.u.c.k? expression. I shrug, just as clueless as my boss.

Joe says something I can't hear, then hangs up the phone. "You're wanted upstairs, ma'am."

"Upstairs?"

"Back in the penthouse," he says. "Mr. Stark would like to see you."

Behind me, I see Dave and Brian nudge each other. Great. Apparently Carl shared his suspicions with the staff. Maybe by tomorrow there'll be an interoffice memo.

"Now's not a good time," I tell the guard. "I'm on my way to a team meeting."

"Mr. Stark was very insistent."

I bet he was. An unpleasant heaviness starts to settle over me. I spent most of my life being told exactly where to be, where to stand, what to do, and when to do it. I squeeze my right hand into a tight fist and force myself to smile at Joe. "I'm sure he'll find something else to occupy his time this afternoon. But if he calls my office, I'll be happy to work him into my schedule next week."

Joe's eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open a little, as if his jaw is made of rubber. I have the feeling nothing like this has happened before. People don't say no to Damien Stark.

I toss my shoulders back a little, liking the new Nikki. "Shall we?" I say to Carl and the boys.

Carl frowns. "Maybe you-"

"No," I say. "If he wants to talk about the project, we can all go back up." In the distance, I hear the ding of an elevator, the sound punctuating my resolve.

"And if it's not the project he wants to see you about?" Carl asks, looking at me hard.

I stare back, just as coolly. "Then he doesn't need to see me, does he?" I stand firm, daring Carl to send me up there. He did it once at the party. If he does it again in the lobby of Stark's building, it really isn't going to be pretty.

After a moment, he nods. "Come on. Champagne's waiting."

Joe has been eyeing us warily, and now that we're moving toward the exit, he becomes animated. "I'm going to need to call Mr. Stark's office," he says. "He's expecting you upstairs."

"It's all right, Joe."

I recognize the voice before I see the man-it's Stark, of course, and he emerges from the elevator bank looking calm and polished. Just seeing him sends a jolt of awareness through me. It's like the fight or flight response. With Stark, I think it's a little bit of both.

He pa.s.ses by the security desk and shakes hands with my good buddy Joe and the second guard before continuing on toward me and Carl and the boys.

"Ms. Fairchild," he says, my name sounding soft and decadent on his lips. "My decorator sent over some portfolio pages from local artists. I was hoping to get your opinion on a few of the pieces."

"You didn't find something you liked last night?" Carl asks.

"I wouldn't say that," Stark answers, his eyes on me. "But I'm still not satisfied."

Fortunately, Carl is looking at Stark. Otherwise, he might notice that my face has undoubtedly turned a dozen shades of red.

"I apologize for the short notice-you probably have a team meeting planned?-but I'd like to get this matter put to bed."

My mouth goes dry at his choice of words.

"No plans," Carl lies, waving his hand casually. "It's Sat.u.r.day. I was just about to wish everyone a good weekend and congratulate them on a job well done."

"Then you don't mind if I steal Ms. Fairchild again." He takes a step closer to me, and as is always the case with Damien Stark, I can feel the effect of him in the air between us.

"Not at all," Carl says. "I'm sure she'll be very helpful." The last is said with a tone that I really don't appreciate, but since I'm going to accept Stark's invitation and not return with my co-workers, I can't really complain.

Yes, despite my earlier resolve I'm going up to the penthouse with Stark.

Why? Because of the way the air has fired between us.

Because of the way my flesh is tingling merely from his proximity.

Because he came down here and so boldly demanded it.

And, finally, because even though he wants a piece of my a.s.s, all Stark's getting today is a piece of my mind.

11.

Stark takes my arm and leads me back toward the elevator bank. I'm hyperaware of his touch, but I try to ignore it and hold on to my irritation.

We stop in front of an elevator next to the one I rode up in with the team. The doors open the moment Stark inserts his identification card into a slot so well camouflaged it looks like part of the granite. We step onto the elevator and I jerk my arm free. "What do you think you're doing?" I demand.

"Hold on," Stark says as the doors close behind us.

"No, I'm not holding on. You don't get to just snap your fingers and expect me to-" The ground bursts upward, and I stumble forward, clutching at Stark as I try to steady myself. He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me closer. My pulse kicks into overdrive, and I know d.a.m.n well it's not from the velocity of our ascent.

"I meant hold on to something," he says. "This is my private elevator. It goes straight to the penthouse, and it goes there quickly."

"Oh," I say stupidly. My irritation is fading, diluted by the intense power charging the air between us. It's magnetic ... and like a magnet it has the power to erase. Thoughts. Memories. Emotions.

Hold on a minute....

I press my palms flat against his chest and use him as leverage to push myself back up. When I'm righted, I move my hands from his chest to the elevator's interior railing. I hold it tight, just in case.

"He knows," I say, firmly and without further explanation. "Dammit, Stark, you can't just waltz into the lobby and pluck me up like a flower."

"Speaking of, I hope you liked the flowers. I had considered something more exotic, but you remind me of daisies and wildflowers."

"That's not the point."

"What?" His brows lift in mocking amus.e.m.e.nt. "Ms. Fairchild, I'm surprised. Such a well-bred young lady, and you don't even say a simple thank-you?"

"Thank you," I say coldly.

"And for the record, I didn't pluck you. Though I would be more than happy to remedy that oversight anytime you wish."

I fight to keep my ire up even though he has begun to amuse me. "I don't appreciate being treated like a puppy who's been told to heel," I snap.

Some of the amus.e.m.e.nt fades from his eyes. "Is that what you think?"

"I-" s.h.i.t. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. I don't like being ordered around, but at the same time, Stark isn't my mother, and maybe I'm not being fair. "No," I say. Then, "I don't know. But dammit, Damien," I continue, as I try to shift myself back to solid ground, "think about how it looks. He knows."

"So you said. Carl, you mean? And what exactly does your boss know? I a.s.sure you that I didn't tell him anything." He eyes me, the amber one alight with amus.e.m.e.nt, the dark one firm and steady. "Did you say something?"

"Don't be obtuse," I say. "He knows that something is going on between us."

"I'm very glad to hear you say that something is."

"Went," I correct quickly. "That something went on between us."

He says nothing. It's a good plan, that silence. I, however, am not so strong.

I clear my throat. "It, um, was fun," I begin, but close my mouth tight at his burst of laughter.

"Fun?"

I can feel my cheeks heat. He has me blushing again, and I don't like it. "Yes," I say primly. "Fun. A lot of fun, actually. A rollicking good time that I will probably replay over and over again as I lay in my bed alone and touch myself until I come." I'm staring hard at him, my voice matter-of-fact, my words like a lashing.

The amus.e.m.e.nt fades from his face, replaced by heat and desire. I suddenly want to take it back. My temper has made me take it one step too far.

"Fun," I repeat and square my shoulders. "But it's not happening again."

"Isn't it?" He takes a single step toward me-and the elevator chimes as the car glides to a stop.

"No," I say, then draw in a sharp breath as he leans closer. I antic.i.p.ate his touch, and then find myself disappointed when it doesn't come. All he's done is press a b.u.t.ton on the control panel. Behind us, the opposite set of doors slides open. I turn and find myself looking into the foyer of Damien Stark's Tower Apartment.

"No," I repeat, not sure if I mean the apartment or a repeat performance or everything all mixed up together. Considering my senses and emotions are all in a tumble, I think the latter is the best guess.

"Why not?" He straightens, but now he's standing even closer than he was before. I'm having a little trouble breathing and I'm suddenly so warm that little beads of sweat have gathered at the nape of my neck. Honestly, it's a little hard to think.

"This isn't a good idea," I say as he takes my hand and leads me into the apartment. The entry hall is elegantly furnished, but inviting and comfortable, much like the offices on the other side of the elevator. A wall directly opposite the elevator blocks my view of most of the apartment.

A ma.s.sive flower arrangement on a low, gla.s.s table dominates the foyer. Curved benches surround the table, and I imagine Stark's dates sitting there to adjust shoes, check purses. It's not an image I like.

The wall itself is almost completely covered by a huge painting, this one of a field of flowers so exquisitely rendered that I almost believe I could step into the canvas and lose myself in that world.

"Your home is beautiful," I say. "It tells a lot about the man who lives here."

"Does it?"

"He likes flowers."

Stark smiles. "He likes beauty."

"Did you pick out the floral arrangement?"

"No," he says. "Though Gregory knows my taste."

"Gregory?"

"My valet."