“Did you love her?”
“No. She was a friend. Her death was a horrible shock.”
“It was an accident?”
“I can only imagine so. Apparently it looked like autoerotic asphyxiation that went very, very bad. The coroner ruled it an accident and that was that.”
I run my fingers through my hair. I believe what he’s told me—but I’m also certain that he hasn’t told me everything. I consider just dropping it, but I can’t. I have to know. “But there’s more, isn’t there? That’s not the whole story.”
“Why do you say so?”
“I—someone—I mean, a friend is worried about me.” It’s only fair he knows, right? “About me and you. He thinks you’re dangerous.”
“Does he?” Right then, the tone of Stark’s voice sounds very, very dangerous. I close my eyes and hope that I somehow haven’t gotten Ollie in trouble. Surely he can’t know this is coming from Ollie. Can he?
“That’s not the point,” I say. “What else happened?”
“Her brother,” he says flatly. “Somehow, Eric is convinced that I tied her up, choked her, and left her for dead, accidentally killing her. And he’s just itching to go sell his story.”
“Oh.” I lick my lips. “That’s horrible.” No wonder he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“So that’s that. What do you think, Nikki? Am I dangerous?” The words are harsh. Angry. I’m thinking this may not be the best time to discuss his proposal.
“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s not.” Again, that pregnant silence. And then one sharp curse. “Dammit, Nikki. I’m the one who’s sorry. Of course you’ll hear rumors. Of course you have a right to ask questions. Considering what I’m asking, you can ask all the questions you want.”
“You’re really not mad?”
“At you, no. At Padgett—well, let’s just say he’s on my list.”
I decide not to ask what list that might be.
“I hope you’re still considering my offer,” he says. “I very much want for you to say yes. I’m hoping it won’t take too much longer for you to reach a decision.”
“I’ve already decided,” I blurt.
He’s silent for so long, I think he hasn’t heard me.
“Tell me,” he finally says.
I swallow and nod, even though of course he can’t see me. “I have conditions.”
“So we’re negotiating. Excellent. What are your terms, Ms. Fairchild?”
I’ve rehearsed this in my mind and my words spill out like a thesis presentation. “First of all, you need to understand that I’m doing this for the money. I need it, I can use it, I want it. So please keep that in mind. Your million dollars color all of my terms.”
“I understand.”
“I get paid no matter what, even if you end up not liking the painting.”
“Certainly. The money is your fee. It has nothing to do with my satisfaction with the painting.”
“You can’t sell it. Not to anyone. It’s either yours, or it’s destroyed.”
“So far your terms are satisfactory.”
I pause and draw a breath because we’re getting to the key points. “The artist has to paint me. Me. Not some artistic representation of me, but the real me.”
“You are what I want, Nikki,” he says, with the same tone of voice he’d used when he’d put his fingers inside me. Tell me you like this.
Yes. God, yes.
I cross and uncross my legs as I sit on the side of the bed. “Just making sure we understand each other, Mr. Stark. Once I take my clothes off, that’s it. What you see is what you get.”
“Be careful, Ms. Fairchild. You’re making me hard.”
“Dammit, Stark, I’m serious.”
“Oh, I’m serious, too. Believe me.”
I mutter a soft curse and hear him chuckle on the other end. “So we agree?” I ask, probably too sharply.
“To your terms? Absolutely. Of course, I have a few deal points of my own to address.”
“Deal points?”
“Certainly. You’ve changed the original terms with a counteroffer. It’s my privilege to do the same.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t thought he’d change the original deal, but I realize now I should have.
“And let me be just as clear as you were, Ms. Fairchild. This is no longer a negotiation. These are my final terms. You agree, or you don’t.”
“Um, okay.” I lick my lips and squirm some more. I’m suddenly very interested in what he has to say. “So what are the terms?”
“From now until the painting is completed, you’re mine.”
“Yours?” The word tastes like chocolate in my mouth.
“What exactly does that mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I try again. “That I belong to you.” My voice is a whisper. Hell, it’s a prayer, and I’m surprised by how turned on I am by his words. I mean, I’d moved to LA to take control of my life, but here I am getting hot at the idea of putting myself in Damien’s hands.
“What else?” he asks.
“That I do as you say.” I slip my hand down between my legs and into my shorts. I’m wet, slick, and hot.
“Yes,” Damien says. His voice is hard, tense. He’s on edge, too, and that knowledge makes me even more turned on.