16
I wake up when the sun coming through the blinds hits my face and I realize I forgot to set an alarm. Except for the diamond and emerald ankle bracelet, I’m naked under the covers. My hand is cupped between my legs, and I’m slick with desire.
I’d fallen asleep thinking about Damien, and I think I must have dreamed of him, too.
I roll over and grope for my phone—then immediately panic when I see that it’s already after seven.
Shit.
Any lingering erotic fantasies dissolve. If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for work.
I take a longer shower than I should, but I need it. The water is near scalding, and it pounds at my body, dissolving fantasies and desires. I need to be in work-mode now; Damien Stark has no place in my head.
I don’t have time to blow-dry and style my hair, so I towel-dry it to dampness, then comb it out. It will air dry on the drive, and I can brush it out into its natural waves as I’m making the trek from my crappy parking place to the elevator.
Traffic is a bitch, and by the time I finally pull into that crappy parking place, I’m a bit bitchy myself.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab my brush, then furiously brush my hair as I stomp to the elevator on two-inch heels.
The receptionist, Jennifer, looks wide-eyed at me as I pull open the glass door to the C-Squared offices. I frown and do a quick mental check of my outfit, but as far as I can tell, everything is buttoned and zipped.
“Is he in?” I say. “I have an idea about tweaking one of the algorithms.” Jennifer probably doesn’t care, but it’s one of those ideas that hits you like a blast furnace, and I want to talk it out with Carl and then get Brian or Dave crunching the numbers.
“He didn’t call you?” Jennifer squeaks. “I thought for sure he would call you.”
Something’s very weird. “Why would he call?”
“He—oh, shit. Here. He said to give this to you.” She hands me a thin envelope.
I don’t want to take it, but I do. It seems to weigh a thousand pounds. “Jennifer,” I say very slowly. “What is this?”
“It’s your check. And that’s your stuff.” She cocks her head to indicate something behind her. For the first time, I notice the copy paper box filled with my personal things. Jennifer bites her lower lip.
“I see.” I square my shoulders. “You never answered my question. Is he in?” I am not going to cry or lose my temper in front of Jennifer. But I am damn well going to talk to Carl.
She nods, then shakes her head. “No. I mean, yes, he’s here. But he said he wouldn’t see you. I’m sorry, Nikki, but he was really, really clear on that. He said that if you didn’t just take your stuff and go, that I’m supposed to call security.”
I feel numb. This is shock. I’m in shock. “But why?”
“I don’t know. Honest.” Jennifer looks like she’s in physical pain, and even though I want to melt into the carpet, I feel sorry for her. And pissed at Carl. What a fucking coward to make the receptionist fire me.
“He didn’t say anything?”
“Not to me. But I think it has something to do with the pitch.”
“The pitch?” My voice is a squeak. “But it went great.”
“Really? Because Stark called first thing this morning and told Carl he wasn’t going to invest.”
My stomach roils. “You’re serious?”
“You really didn’t know?”
“I really didn’t.” But I think I know why I was fired.
I’m in a weird kind of fog as I take my stuff down to my car. I drop the box in the trunk, but I don’t get in the car. It’s only when I’m halfway across the parking level that I realize I’m on my way to Stark Tower.
Since it’s not the weekend, I don’t need to sign in with Joe. But I stop by the security desk anyway since I have no idea what floor the reception area for Stark International is on.
“Thirty-five,” Joe says.
“Thanks. Do you happen to know if Mr. Stark is in today?” I am amazed at how calm my voice sounds.
“I believe so, Ms. Fairchild.”
“Great,” I say, surprised he remembers my name.
I hurry to the proper elevator bank and drum my fingers on my leg as I wait for the car to arrive. Finally, it comes and I pile on with a half dozen other people. The car seems to stop at every floor, until I’m the only one left for the final leg of the journey. The car stops on thirty-five, the doors glide open, and I step out into another well-appointed reception area, my heart pounding so hard I’m surprised I haven’t cracked a rib.
A young woman with curly red hair smiles at me from behind a polished desk. “Ms. Fairchild? Welcome to Stark International. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Mr. Stark’s office.”
“I—what? Oh …” I am a stuttering mess. This isn’t what I’d scripted when I rode up. I’d intended to demand to see him, refusing to leave reception until he spoke to me and explained himself. And for that matter, how does this woman know who I am?
I would ask her, but she’s already leading me through a set of frosted glass doors. We’ve entered yet another reception area, this one done in a contemporary style. There are photographs on the wall featuring waves, mountains, tall redwood trees. There’s even a close-up of a bicycle tire, a winding road visible through the spokes. Each is artistically composed, with such precise and startling perspectives, that I’m certain they were all taken by the same photographer. I shove my irritation aside long enough to wonder who took them. Damien, perhaps?