“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 massive flower arrangement on a low, glass 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.”

Valet? I was raised in a family with quite a bit of Texas oil money, but nobody in my family ever had a valet.

“The painting is beautiful. But I’m surprised to see a pastoral scene in your home.”

“Are you?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “Why?”

“You’re so intent on a nude for your new place.” I shrug. “I just wouldn’t have pegged you for flowers and trees and all that stuff.”

“I’m a man of mystery,” he says. “But to be honest, the decision to hang a nude in the Malibu property is a relatively new one. You might say that inspiration struck me at Blaine’s show. Of course, unless I’m able to acquire what I want, the wall will stay bare.”

He’s looking hard at me as he speaks, and though his tone sounds perfectly conversational, I can’t help the shiver of awareness that tingles up my spine.

“Did you have some portfolio pages you wanted to show me?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay cool and businesslike. “If not, I should be going. I’d like to enjoy my Saturday.”

“I’d be happy to suggest some very engaging activities,” he says.

I keep my lips pressed together, and Damien laughs. “Ms. Fairchild. How your thoughts do wander.…”

I flush and have to force myself not to snap out a curse.

“Come on in,” he says, his voice still light with humor. He heads toward the passage leading into the main section of the apartment. “I’ll make you a drink and we can talk.”

I hesitate, wanting to tell him we can park ourselves on the bench right there and chat about whatever pictures he wants. But I’m curious. I want to see where he lives—one of the places, anyway. And so I allow him to lead me into a stunning living room filled with contemporary furniture. Steel and leather, but highlighted with enough pillows and lamps and pottery to make it seem warm and inviting.

The most stunning feature is the wall of windows, beyond which stretches an urban panorama.

Damien nods to a wet bar that occupies a corner of the room. I follow him and sit on a bar stool, my back to the window. The placement of the stool in proximity to the window makes it seem as though I’m floating in space. It’s exhilarating, though I have to wonder if it wouldn’t be a bit unnerving after a few drinks.

“I like your smile,” Damien says as he steps behind the bar. “What are you thinking about?”

I tell him, and he laughs.

“I’ve never thought about it,” he admits. “But I promise to keep you fully tethered to me. No sailing into space.” His grin turns wicked. “Not unless it’s me who’s sending you there.”

Oh my. I squirm a little on my stool, thinking that maybe I should have insisted we stay in the foyer.

“Wine?” he asks.

I tilt my head. “I’d prefer bourbon.”

“Would you?”

I lift a shoulder in a casual shrug. “My mother used to pound into my head that a proper lady only drinks wine or feminine mixed cocktails. Never hard liquor. My grandfather was a whiskey kind of guy.”

“I see,” he says, and I have the feeling he sees more than I’ve actually told him. “I think I may have just the thing.” He bends down, disappearing beneath the bar. A moment later he appears again, setting the bottle on the bar, pulling down a highball glass, and pouring me two fingers of liquor without another word.

I take the glass, a little in shock, because surely I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing. “Glen Garioch?” I ask, reading the name off the bottle. I take a tentative sip. It’s exceptionally smooth with a woody flavor and floral undertones. I close my eyes to savor it, and take another sip. “What year is this?” I finally ask, fearing I already know the answer.

“Nineteen fifty-eight,” he says nonchalantly. “Excellent, isn’t it?”

“Nineteen fifty-eight? Are you serious?” This whiskey was my grandfather’s idea of the holy grail. Only three hundred fifty bottles of the Highland whiskey were put out onto the market, and I happen to know that a single bottle retails at about twenty-six hundred dollars. And here I am, drinking it on a Saturday afternoon without a trumpet or a big band or a press release to mark the occasion.

“You’re familiar with this particular label?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Basically we’re drinking gold.”

“Why would I offer you anything but my best?”

He’s poured himself a glass as well, and now he walks around the bar. I think he’s going to sit on the stool next to me, but he doesn’t. He simply leans against it, which means that he’s a few inches closer to me … and between Damien Stark and me, inches can be dangerous.

I tell myself it’s to quell my nerves and take another sip, then wait for Damien to say something else. He’s quiet, though, watching me. I begin to feel a bit self-conscious under his unabashed inspection.

“You’re staring,” I finally say.

“You’re beautiful.”

I look away. It’s not what I want to hear. “I’m not,” I say. “Or maybe I am. Does it matter?”

“Sometimes,” he says, which is the most honest answer I’ve ever heard to that particular question. “It matters to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I like looking at you. I like the way you hold your shoulders back. The way you walk as if the world is yours for the taking.”

I shake my head a little. “That’s just years of walking with a book on my head, and lectures from my mother, and endless etiquette classes.”

“It’s more than that. I like the way you wear your clothes, as if you understand that it’s you and not the cloth that matters. You are beautiful, Nikki, but it’s because of what you exude as much as it is the standard of beauty that we see in pageants and on magazine covers.”