He says nothing. It’s a good plan, that silence. I, however, am not so strong.
I clear my throat. “It, um, was fun,” I begin, but close my mouth tight at his burst of laughter.
“Fun?”
I can feel my cheeks heat. He has me blushing again, and I don’t like it. “Yes,” I say primly. “Fun. A lot of fun, actually. A rollicking good time that I will probably replay over and over again as I lay in my bed alone and touch myself until I come.” I’m staring hard at him, my voice matter-of-fact, my words like a lashing.
The amusement fades from his face, replaced by heat and desire. I suddenly want to take it back. My temper has made me take it one step too far.
“Fun,” I repeat and square my shoulders. “But it’s not happening again.”
“Isn’t it?” He takes a single step toward me—and the elevator chimes as the car glides to a stop.
“No,” I say, then draw in a sharp breath as he leans closer. I anticipate his touch, and then find myself disappointed when it doesn’t come. All he’s done is press a button on the control panel. Behind us, the opposite set of doors slides open. I turn and find myself looking into the foyer of Damien Stark’s Tower Apartment.
“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.