"You are," he continues. "But not like this-splashed across a canvas for all the world to see, belonging to no one and everyone." His head tilts slightly to the left, as if he's trying out a new perspective on me. "No," he murmurs again, but this time he doesn't elaborate.

I am not p.r.o.ne to blushing, and I'm mortified to realize that my cheeks are burning. For someone who just a few moments ago mentally told this man to f.u.c.k off, I am doing a p.i.s.s-poor job of keeping the upper hand. "I was hoping to have the chance to talk to you this evening," I say.

His brow lifts ever so slightly, giving him an expression of polite amus.e.m.e.nt. "Oh?"

"I'm one of your fellowship recipients. I wanted to say thank you."

He doesn't say a word.

I soldier on. "I worked my way through college, so the fellowship helped tremendously. I don't think I could have graduated with two degrees if it hadn't been for the financial help. So thank you." I still don't mention the pageant. As far as I'm concerned, Damien Stark and I are deep in the land of the do-over.

"And what are you doing now that you've left the hallowed halls of academia?"

He speaks so formally that I know he's teasing me. I ignore it and answer the question seriously. "I joined the team at C-Squared," I say. "I'm Carl Rosenfeld's new a.s.sistant." Evelyn already told him this, but I a.s.sume he hadn't been paying attention.

"I see."

The way he says it suggests he doesn't see at all. "Is that a problem?"

"Two degrees. A straight-A average. Glowing recommendations from all your professors. Acceptance to Ph.D. programs at both MIT and Cal Tech."

I stare at him, baffled. The Stark International Fellowship Committee awards thirty fellowships each year. How the h.e.l.l can he possibly know so much about my academic career?

"I merely find it interesting that you ended up not leading a product development team but doing gruntwork as the owner's a.s.sistant."

"I-" I don't know what to say. I'm still spinning from the surreal nature of this inquisition.

"Are you sleeping with your boss, Ms. Fairchild?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry. Was the question unclear? I asked if you were f.u.c.king Carl Rosenfeld."

"I-no." I blurt the answer out, because I can't let that image linger for longer than a second. Immediately, though, I regret speaking. What I should have done was slap his face. What the h.e.l.l kind of question is that?

"Good," he says, so crisply and firmly and with such intensity that any thought I have of verbally b.i.t.c.h-slapping him vanishes completely. My thoughts, in fact, have taken a sharp left turn and I am undeniably, unwelcomely turned on. I glare at the woman in the portrait, hating her even more, and not particularly pleased with Damien Stark or myself. I suppose we have something in common, though. At the moment, we're both picturing me out of my little black dress.

s.h.i.t.

He doesn't even try to hide his amus.e.m.e.nt. "I believe I've shocked you, Ms. Fairchild."

"h.e.l.l yes, you've shocked me. What did you expect?"

He doesn't answer, just tilts his head back and laughs. It's as if a mask has slipped away, allowing me a glimpse of the real man hidden beneath. I smile, liking that we have this one small thing in common.

"Can anyone join this party?" It's Carl, and I want desperately to say no.

"How nice to see you again, Mr. Rosenfeld," Stark says. The mask is firmly back in place.

Carl glances at me, and I can see the question in his eyes. "Excuse me," I say. "I need to run to the ladies' room."

I escape to the cool elegance of Evelyn's powder room. She's thoughtfully provided mouthwash and hairspray and even disposable mascara wands. There is a lavender-scented salt scrub on the stone vanity, and I put a spoonful in my hands, then close my eyes and rub, imagining that I'm sloughing off the sh.e.l.l of myself to reveal something bright and shiny and new.

I rinse my hands in warm water, then caress my skin with my fingertips. My hands are soft now. Slick and sensual.

I meet my eyes in the mirror. "No," I whisper, but my hand slides down to brush the hem of my dress just below my knee. It's fitted at the bodice and waist, but the skirt is flared, designed to present an enticing little swish when you move.

My fingers dance across my knee, then trail lazily up my inner thigh. I meet my gaze in the mirror, then close my eyes. It's Stark's face I want to see. His eyes I imagine watching me from that mirror.

There's a sensuality in the way my fingers slowly graze my own skin. A lazy eroticism that some other time could build to something hot and explosive. But that's not where I'm going-that's what I'm destroying.

I stop when I feel it-the jagged, raised tissue of the five-year-old scar that mars the once-perfect flesh of my inner thigh. I press my fingertips to it, remembering the pain that punctuated that particular wound. That had been the weekend that my sister, Ashley, had died, and I'd just about crumbled under the weight of my grief.

But that's the past, and I close my eyes tight, my body hot, the scar throbbing beneath my hand.

This time when I open my eyes, all I see is myself. Nikki Fairchild, back in control.

I wrap my restored confidence around me like a blanket and return to the party. Both men look at me as I approach. Stark's face is unreadable, but Carl isn't even trying to hide his joy. He looks like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. "Say your goodbyes, Nikki. We're heading out. Lots to do. Lots to do."

"What? Now?" I don't bother to hide my confusion.

"Turns out Mr. Stark's going to be out of town on Tuesday, so we're pushing the meeting to tomorrow."

"Sat.u.r.day?"

"Is that a problem?" Stark asks me.

"No, of course not, but-"

"He's attending personally," Carl says. "Personally," he repeats, as if I could have missed it the first time.

"Right. I'll just find Evelyn and say goodnight." I start to move away, but Stark's voice draws me back.

"I'd like Ms. Fairchild to stay."

"What?" Carl speaks, expressing my thought.

"The house I'm building is almost complete. I came here to find a painting for a particular room. I'd like a feminine perspective. I'll see her home safely, of course."

"Oh." Carl looks like he's going to protest, then thinks better of it. "She'll be happy to help."

The h.e.l.l she will. It's one thing to wear the dress. It's another to completely skip the presentation rehearsal because a self-absorbed bazillionaire snaps his fingers and says jump. No matter how hot said bazillionaire might be.

But Carl cuts me off before I can form a coherent reply. "We'll speak tomorrow morning," he tells me. "The meeting's at two."

And then he's gone and I'm left seething beside a very smug Damien Stark.

"Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are?"

"I know exactly who I am, Ms. Fairchild. Do you?"

"Maybe the better question is, who the h.e.l.l do you think I am?"

"Are you attracted to me?"

"I-what?" I say, verbally stumbling. His words have knocked me off center, and I struggle to regain my balance. "That is so not the issue."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I realize I've revealed too much.

"I'm Carl's a.s.sistant," I say firmly and slowly. "Not yours. And my job description does not include decorating your G.o.dd.a.m.n house." I'm not shouting, but my voice is as taut as a wire and my body even more so.

Stark, d.a.m.n him, appears not only perfectly at ease, but also completely amused. "If your job duties include helping your boss find capital, then you may want to reconsider how you play the game. Insulting potential investors is probably not the best approach."

A cold stab of fear that I've screwed this up cuts through me. "Maybe not," I say. "But if you're going to withhold your money because I didn't roll over and flounce my skirts for you, then you're not the man the press makes you out to be. The Damien Stark I've read about invests in quality. Not in friendships or relationships or because he thinks some poor little inventor needs the deal. The Damien Stark I admire focuses on talent and talent alone. Or is that just public relations?"

I stand straight, ready to endure whatever verbal lashes he'll whip back at me. I'm not prepared for the response I get.

Stark laughs.

"You're right," he says. "I'm not going to invest in C-Squared because I met Carl at a party any more than I'd invest in it because you're in my bed."

"Oh." Once again, my cheeks heat. Once again, he's knocked me off balance.

"I do, however, want you."

My mouth is dry. I have to swallow before I can speak. "To help you pick a painting?"

"Yes," he confirms. "For now."

I force myself not to wonder about later. "Why?"

"Because I need an honest opinion. Most women on my arm say what they think will make me happy, not what they actually mean."

"But I'm not on your arm, Mr. Stark." I let the words hang for a moment. Then I deliberately turn my back and walk away. I can feel him watching me, but I neither stop nor turn around. Slowly, I smile. I even add a little swing to my step. This is my moment of triumph and I intend to savor it.

Except victory isn't as delicious as I expected. In fact, it's a little bitter. Because secretly-oh, so secretly-I can't help but wonder what it would be like to be the girl on Damien Stark's arm.

4.

I cross the entire room before I pause, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. Fifty-five steps. I counted every one of them, and now that there's no place left to go I am simply standing still, staring at one of Blaine's paintings. Another nude, this one lying on her side across a stark white bed, only the foreground in focus. The rest of the room-walls, furniture-are nothing more than the blurred gray suggestions of shapes.

The woman's skin is pale, as if she's never seen the sun. But her face suggests otherwise. It reflects so much ecstasy that it seems to glow.

There is only one splash of color on the entire canvas-a long red ribbon. It is tied loosely around the woman's neck, then extends between her heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s to trail down even farther. It slides between her legs, then continues, the image fading into the background before meeting the edge of the canvas. There's a tautness to the ribbon, though, and it's clear what story the artist is telling; her lover is there, just off the canvas, and he's holding the ribbon, making it slide over her, making her writhe against it in a desperate need to find the pleasure that he's teasing her with.

I swallow, imagining the sensation of that cool, smooth satin stroking me between my legs. Making me hot, making me come ...

And in my fantasy, it's Damien Stark who is holding that ribbon.

This is not good.

I ease away from the painting toward the bar, which is the only place in the entire room where I'm not bombarded by erotic imagery. Honestly, I need the break. Erotic art doesn't usually make me melt. Except, of course, it's not the art that's making me hot.

I do, however, want you.

What had he meant by that?

More to the point, what do I want him to mean by that? Which, of course, is a bulls.h.i.t question. I know what I want. The same thing I wanted six years ago. I also know it will never happen. And even the fantasy is a very bad idea.

I scan the room, telling myself I'm only looking over the art. Apparently this is my night for self-deception. I'm looking for Stark, but when I find him, I wish that I hadn't bothered. He's standing next to a tall, lithe woman with short dark hair. She looks like Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina, vibrant and beautiful. Her small features are alight with pleasure, and as she laughs she reaches out and touches him in a casual, intimate gesture. My stomach hurts just watching them. Good G.o.d, I don't even know this man. Can I really be jealous?

I consider the possibility, and in the spirit of tonight's theme, I deceive myself once more. Not jealousy-anger. I'm p.i.s.sed that Stark could so cavalierly flirt with me even though he's obviously enthralled by another woman-a beautiful, charming, radiant woman.

"More champagne?" The bartender holds out a flute. Tempting. Very tempting, but I shake my head. I don't need to get drunk. I need to get out of here.

More guests arrive, and the room overflows with people. I look for Stark again, but he has disappeared into the crowd. Audrey Hepburn is nowhere in sight, either. I'm sure wherever they are, they're having a dandy time.

I sandwich myself between a wall and a hallway cordoned off with a velvet rope. Presumably it leads to the rest of Evelyn's house. Right now, it's the closest thing to privacy I have.

I take out my phone, hit speed dial, and wait for Jamie to answer.

"You will so not believe this," she says, skipping all the preliminaries. "I just did the nasty with Douglas."

"Oh my G.o.d, Jamie. Why?" Okay, that came out before I had the chance to think about it, and while this revelation about Douglas is not good news, I'm grateful to be dragged so forcefully into Jamie's problems. Mine can wait.

Douglas is our next-door neighbor, and his bedroom shares a wall with mine. Even though it's only been four days, I have a pretty good idea of how often he gets laid. The idea that my best friend is another ticky mark on his bedpost does not thrill me.

Of course, from Jamie's perspective, he's a mark on her bedpost.

"We were by the pool drinking wine, and then we got in the hot tub and then ..." She trails off, leaving "and then" to my imagination.

"He's still there? Or are you at his place?"

"G.o.d, no. I sent him home an hour ago."

"Jamie ..."

"What? I just needed to burn some energy. Trust me, it's good. I'm so mellow now you wouldn't even believe."

I frown. Like a girl who collects stray puppies, Jamie brings home a lot of men. She doesn't, however, keep them around. Not even until morning. As her roommate, I find that convenient. There's nothing quite like meeting an unshaved, unshowered, half-naked man staring into your refrigerator at three in the morning. As her friend, however, I worry.