“James,” I shout. Now that my mind’s made up, I’m not going to hesitate. “I’ve got to go. Sorry about the sushi.”
I don’t wait for her to answer, and as the door’s slamming behind me, I hear her surprised, “What? What?” echoing behind me.
My mind is either too blank or too full during the drive to Stark’s office. All I know is that there’s not a coherent thought in my head. When I get to Stark Tower, I ask Joe if Stark’s back, and am told he’s not.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m going to wait for him in the penthouse. Tell him Ms. Fairchild wants to see him the minute he returns.”
Joe looks a little taken aback, but I just march to the elevator, leaving him to call up and relay my demands to Stark’s overly efficient staff.
The elevator that opens isn’t the one I rode up in with Carl and the boys. It’s Stark’s private elevator. I assume that Sylvia has sent it down for me and step on, feeling powerful and in control. Yes, indeed, Stark is about to get a piece of my mind.
My exuberant purpose fades a little when the elevator doors open not on the office, but into Stark’s Tower Apartment. Suddenly I feel a little intimidated.
I consider staying in the elevator and pushing the alarm button until the opposite set of doors open, but I don’t go through with it. Instead, I step out into the apartment and take a deep breath. As I do, the elevator doors close behind me.
My breath hitches, and I turn and press the call button again, feeling suddenly, weirdly nervous.
The doors don’t open.
Apparently, I’ll be staying here until Stark returns.
Right. Okay. No problem.
I’ve been here once, so I head on in, then grab myself a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator behind the wet bar. I take it into the living area and try to sit and wait, but I can’t. I’m up and pacing in seconds, too full of nerves and anger to sit still.
I know I shouldn’t, but I explore the apartment. Then again, why the hell shouldn’t I? Stark knows all sorts of shit about me. At the very least, I want to know what his bedroom looks like.
I’m surprised when I find it, and yet I’m not. It’s a simple room. One wall showcases a low wooden dresser with clean lines and recessed pulls. Another wall is dominated by a pair of elegant French doors that open onto a bathroom. As is Damien’s style, a third wall is made entirely of windows looking out over the expanse of Los Angeles. The fourth wall features a bed.
Unlike the bed in the Malibu house, this one has no frame. It’s low to the ground and is made up with crisp white sheets. A deep blue blanket is tossed across it, but other than that there is no spread or cover. There are two pillows, also encased in white. And although there is no headboard per se, a section of the wall has been paneled in what looks like a deep mahogany. It acts as a faux headboard and ensures that the bed is the room’s focal point.
It’s simple and elegant and yet there’s something a little sad about the room. It’s like a mask, I think. Revealing only what Damien wants to be revealed.
I wonder what women he’s brought here, and then I shiver a little, because I have not been one of them and somehow, that makes me feel special.
“Nikki?”
I jump. I’d been so preoccupied I hadn’t registered his approach. I turn to face him. He’s leaning casually against the hallway wall. He’s in suit trousers, but he’s removed the jacket and tie, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks deliciously sexy, and I want to slap him for distracting me from my purpose.
I don’t speak, and I see the concern edge onto his face. “Is everything okay? What’s happened?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Bruce?”
His brows rise. He actually looks surprised by the question. “What should I have told you?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Shit, Damien, you’re the reason I got the offer.”
“I pulled strings so that Bruce knew you were in the market,” he says sharply. “But that’s it. You got it because you’re damn good at what you do. Because your credentials are stellar. Because you’re smart and hardworking and you deserve it.”
I cock my head and look at him, because that is a load of bullshit. “And how exactly do you know all that about me? From watching me pose naked? From fucking me?”
“I see you, Nikki.”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s because you’ve been looking for such a long time.”
His eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”
“At Evelyn’s party, for one. You were so pissed at me for being Carl’s assistant. You gave a better rundown of my credentials than I could. How did you know so much about me? It wasn’t in my fellowship file. So how, Damien?”
“I’ve followed your academic career. I’ve talked with your professors. I’ve watched you blossom.”
“I—” He’s knocked me off kilter with the matter-of-fact nature of his confession. “But why?”
He says nothing.
“Damien, why?” I hear panic creep into my voice.
“Because I want you,” he finally says, and the heat in his voice curls through me so vividly that the panic fades and I have to force myself to concentrate. “I have since I met you at the pageant.”
My mind is spinning. “But—but why not say something back then?”
His small smile gives away nothing. “I can be a very patient man when the goal is worth waiting for.”
“I—” I don’t know what to say. My mind is spinning with questions. I want to ask why he’s so certain I’m worth it, but the best I can manage is, “Why me?”