Jamie flops back down beside me, looking far too impressed with herself.

"Oh. My. G.o.d," I say. "Are you nuts?"

"That was priceless," she says. "Honestly, I wish I could have seen your mother's face."

I maintain my stern expression, but secretly I agree.

"Come on," Jamie says, standing up and gathering her things. "Let's go move our stuff to the dryer. And I'm still hungry. Wanna do pizza and a movie? How about Annie Hall? I hear it won an Oscar."

Jamie's not the least bit interested in Annie Hall, and she dozes off about fifteen minutes into the movie. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure if she's asleep or in a food coma from the six slices of pepperoni pizza she consumed within minutes of the delivery guy's arrival at our door.

Me, I love the movie, but that doesn't mean I've been paying attention. No, I've been thinking about Damien Stark. About his offer, the one that my mother would so not approve of.

The one I think I've decided to accept. I just need to ask Damien a couple of questions.

Be careful.

He's dangerous.

I don't believe it. Not really. Not the way Ollie means. But I need to know for sure.

b.u.t.terflies dance in my belly as I grab my phone off the charging station by the sofa and pad barefoot to my bedroom. My laundry, I realize, is still in the dryer. But my panties can wait.

I scroll back through my incoming calls and find his number. I hesitate only a second, and then I dial.

"Nikki," Stark says, before the first ring dies out. He sounds relieved to hear from me.

"What happened to Sara Padgett?" The question bursts out of me. I have to ask while I have the nerve.

I can feel the chill coming off Damien all the way through the phone line.

"She died, Nikki. But I believe you already knew that."

"I want to know how," I say. "And I want to know about the two of you. Your security got all riled up yesterday when someone named Padgett showed up. And if I'm going to-"

"What?"

I suck in a breath. "If I'm going to consider your very generous offer, I need to understand the kind of man I'm dealing with."

"Jesus." For a moment I hear only traffic noise. He must be in his car.

"Damien?"

"I'm here. This is bulls.h.i.t, Nikki. You know that right?"

"No," I say. "I don't know s.h.i.t because you're not telling me anything."

The words, when they come, sound grudging. "Sara Padgett and her brother, Eric, inherited a controlling share of an interesting little company called Padgett Enviro-Works from their father. The company had made their father quite wealthy, but it lost its edge after he pa.s.sed away, and started spiraling downward. Eric was failing at management and Sara wasn't interested in the company at all. I saw an opportunity for growth and made an overture to buy their shares of stock."

He pauses as if waiting for me to comment, but I stay silent. I want to hear where this is going.

After a moment he continues, his words flat, as if he's reading from notecards. "They both declined my offer, but Sara asked if I would escort her to a charity function. I agreed. One thing led to another and we continued to see each other."

"Did you love her?"

"No. She was a friend. Her death was a horrible shock."

"It was an accident?"

"I can only imagine so. Apparently it looked like autoerotic asphyxiation that went very, very bad. The coroner ruled it an accident and that was that."

I run my fingers through my hair. I believe what he's told me-but I'm also certain that he hasn't told me everything. I consider just dropping it, but I can't. I have to know. "But there's more, isn't there? That's not the whole story."

"Why do you say so?"

"I-someone-I mean, a friend is worried about me." It's only fair he knows, right? "About me and you. He thinks you're dangerous."

"Does he?" Right then, the tone of Stark's voice sounds very, very dangerous. I close my eyes and hope that I somehow haven't gotten Ollie in trouble. Surely he can't know this is coming from Ollie. Can he?

"That's not the point," I say. "What else happened?"

"Her brother," he says flatly. "Somehow, Eric is convinced that I tied her up, choked her, and left her for dead, accidentally killing her. And he's just itching to go sell his story."

"Oh." I lick my lips. "That's horrible." No wonder he doesn't want to talk about it.

"So that's that. What do you think, Nikki? Am I dangerous?" The words are harsh. Angry. I'm thinking this may not be the best time to discuss his proposal.

"I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. It's none of my business."

"No, it's not." Again, that pregnant silence. And then one sharp curse. "Dammit, Nikki. I'm the one who's sorry. Of course you'll hear rumors. Of course you have a right to ask questions. Considering what I'm asking, you can ask all the questions you want."

"You're really not mad?"

"At you, no. At Padgett-well, let's just say he's on my list."

I decide not to ask what list that might be.

"I hope you're still considering my offer," he says. "I very much want for you to say yes. I'm hoping it won't take too much longer for you to reach a decision."

"I've already decided," I blurt.

He's silent for so long, I think he hasn't heard me.

"Tell me," he finally says.

I swallow and nod, even though of course he can't see me. "I have conditions."

"So we're negotiating. Excellent. What are your terms, Ms. Fairchild?"

I've rehea.r.s.ed this in my mind and my words spill out like a thesis presentation. "First of all, you need to understand that I'm doing this for the money. I need it, I can use it, I want it. So please keep that in mind. Your million dollars color all of my terms."

"I understand."

"I get paid no matter what, even if you end up not liking the painting."

"Certainly. The money is your fee. It has nothing to do with my satisfaction with the painting."

"You can't sell it. Not to anyone. It's either yours, or it's destroyed."

"So far your terms are satisfactory."

I pause and draw a breath because we're getting to the key points. "The artist has to paint me. Me. Not some artistic representation of me, but the real me."

"You are what I want, Nikki," he says, with the same tone of voice he'd used when he'd put his fingers inside me. Tell me you like this.

Yes. G.o.d, yes.

I cross and uncross my legs as I sit on the side of the bed. "Just making sure we understand each other, Mr. Stark. Once I take my clothes off, that's it. What you see is what you get."

"Be careful, Ms. Fairchild. You're making me hard."

"Dammit, Stark, I'm serious."

"Oh, I'm serious, too. Believe me."

I mutter a soft curse and hear him chuckle on the other end. "So we agree?" I ask, probably too sharply.

"To your terms? Absolutely. Of course, I have a few deal points of my own to address."

"Deal points?"

"Certainly. You've changed the original terms with a counteroffer. It's my privilege to do the same."

"Oh." I hadn't thought he'd change the original deal, but I realize now I should have.

"And let me be just as clear as you were, Ms. Fairchild. This is no longer a negotiation. These are my final terms. You agree, or you don't."

"Um, okay." I lick my lips and squirm some more. I'm suddenly very interested in what he has to say. "So what are the terms?"

"From now until the painting is completed, you're mine."

"Yours?" The word tastes like chocolate in my mouth.

"What exactly does that mean?"

"What do you think it means?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I try again. "That I belong to you." My voice is a whisper. h.e.l.l, it's a prayer, and I'm surprised by how turned on I am by his words. I mean, I'd moved to LA to take control of my life, but here I am getting hot at the idea of putting myself in Damien's hands.

"What else?" he asks.

"That I do as you say." I slip my hand down between my legs and into my shorts. I'm wet, slick, and hot.

"Yes," Damien says. His voice is hard, tense. He's on edge, too, and that knowledge makes me even more turned on.

"And if I don't?"

"You studied science, Ms. Fairchild. Surely you're aware that every action has an equal and opposite reaction."

"Oh." I slide my finger over my sensitive c.l.i.t, then gasp, not expecting the fast, hard tremor that shoots through me in release.

"You like that, Ms. Fairchild?" he asks.

My cheeks flame. I'm not sure if he means his terms or my o.r.g.a.s.m. I draw myself up. "What if I don't agree?"

"Then I don't get my painting, and you don't get your million."

"Why make me agree? I've already said I'll pose."

"Because I can. Because I want you. Because I don't want to court my way up to our first f.u.c.k. And because I don't want to play games."

"Isn't a game exactly what you're playing?"

"A fair point, Ms. Fairchild. But I want this on my terms."

"You say you want me, but you don't. You say you want my portrait, but you won't."

For a moment, I hear nothing. Damien Stark is trying to figure out my angle. "You're wrong," he finally says.

"I don't think so. And that's why my terms are important. You call it off-the painting, this game-and I still get my money."

"Is that an agreement?"

"It's a condition."

"Very well. I accept your condition."

"And we don't start now. We start at the first session with the artist."

"You're a tough negotiator, Ms. Fairchild. But I accept your proposed commencement date."

I roll my eyes. He's getting weary of my tweaks to his deal. Well, too bad. "And it's not open-ended," I add. "For all I know, you're paying the artist by the hour, and he'll take a year to complete it. One week, Mr. Stark."

"One week?" He doesn't sound happy.

"That's my best offer. And, of course, you'll have to work around my day job. But my evenings and the weekend are yours."

"Very well. One week. Now, do we have a deal?"