His reply is immediate: Knew you would. Congrats. XXXOOO. P.S. Did you break any rules? Ps or Bs?

It takes me a second to translate, but when I get it, my cheeks heat: No panties, and I thought of you. No bra, and I kept my jacket buttoned.

He comes back right away with: Perfect on all counts.

I type back another one: But now I’m all wound up. Lack of Ps and adrenaline rush. Are you free?

This time the reply takes a full minute to come through: Wish I was. I know how to unwind you.

I grin and type: You could call me right now. You do some pretty good unwinding by phone.

His reply makes me smile even wider: I could, but in a meeting in Century City with some execs from Tokyo. Not sure they would understand. Back in office soon. Will see you later. All of you, baby. In the meantime, imagine me, touching you.…

No problem there—imagining Damien’s touch has become one of my favorite pastimes. Right behind actually experiencing his touch.

When I get home and find Jamie in the apartment, I feel less cheated that Damien is unavailable. Jamie is, of course, sufficiently enthusiastic, and I get to hang on to my new job high.

“So what should we do to celebrate?” she asks.

“A movie?”

“No way. I want the dirt on you and Mr. Moneybags. Sushi?”

“Perfect.”

Since I am fed up with heels and skirts and tailored blouses, I head into my room to change into jeans while Jamie does the same. I hesitate before pulling them on, then toss them aside. I put on a denim skirt and sandals—and no underwear. Even when Damien isn’t around, rules are rules.

The bra’s easy. I pair my skirt with a backless halter and call it a fashion choice. “You almost ready?” I call to Jamie.

“Five minutes,” she promises, then, “Hey, did you see today’s paper?”

“Why?”

“It’s on the coffee table. The Life and Style section. Check it out.”

I shrug, then settle onto the couch and pick up the paper. I flip through, but nothing much catches my attention until I get close to the end. And then what catches my attention is me.

Or a picture of me. Me with Damien to be precise.

It’s an article on the Stark Educational Foundation and the charity event. A double-page spread with candid shots of the guests. I smile as I scan the photos, looking for Blaine or Evelyn or Ollie.

I don’t find them, but I do see Giselle. And my fingers stiffen when I see the man she’s standing next to—Bruce Tolley.

What the—?

Damien didn’t tell me he knew my new boss. But maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that Bruce is standing with Giselle.

My attempt at self-delusion is quickly foiled when I glance at the caption. Turns out Bruce is Giselle’s husband. The husband that Damien had cocktails with the very first night we met. And Damien hadn’t said a word when I told him I was interviewing with Innovative, or just now for that matter.

What the bloody hell does that mean?

Nothing good, that’s for damn sure, and I feel a little queasy as this oddity roils around inside me, mixing with Ollie’s fears.

Shit.

I grab my cell phone and start to call him, but I end the call before I finish dialing. This isn’t a phone call kind of conversation. For better or worse, I’m heading to him.

“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.”