“And if it’s not the project he wants to see you about?” Carl asks, looking at me hard.
I stare back, just as coolly. “Then he doesn’t need to see me, does he?” I stand firm, daring Carl to send me up there. He did it once at the party. If he does it again in the lobby of Stark’s building, it really isn’t going to be pretty.
After a moment, he nods. “Come on. Champagne’s waiting.”
Joe has been eyeing us warily, and now that we’re moving toward the exit, he becomes animated. “I’m going to need to call Mr. Stark’s office,” he says. “He’s expecting you upstairs.”
“It’s all right, Joe.”
I recognize the voice before I see the man—it’s Stark, of course, and he emerges from the elevator bank looking calm and polished. Just seeing him sends a jolt of awareness through me. It’s like the fight or flight response. With Stark, I think it’s a little bit of both.
He passes by the security desk and shakes hands with my good buddy Joe and the second guard before continuing on toward me and Carl and the boys.
“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, my name sounding soft and decadent on his lips. “My decorator sent over some portfolio pages from local artists. I was hoping to get your opinion on a few of the pieces.”
“You didn’t find something you liked last night?” Carl asks.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Stark answers, his eyes on me. “But I’m still not satisfied.”
Fortunately, Carl is looking at Stark. Otherwise, he might notice that my face has undoubtedly turned a dozen shades of red.
“I apologize for the short notice—you probably have a team meeting planned?—but I’d like to get this matter put to bed.”
My mouth goes dry at his choice of words.
“No plans,” Carl lies, waving his hand casually. “It’s Saturday. I was just about to wish everyone a good weekend and congratulate them on a job well done.”
“Then you don’t mind if I steal Ms. Fairchild again.” He takes a step closer to me, and as is always the case with Damien Stark, I can feel the effect of him in the air between us.
“Not at all,” Carl says. “I’m sure she’ll be very helpful.” The last is said with a tone that I really don’t appreciate, but since I’m going to accept Stark’s invitation and not return with my co-workers, I can’t really complain.
Yes, despite my earlier resolve I’m going up to the penthouse with Stark.
Why? Because of the way the air has fired between us.
Because of the way my flesh is tingling merely from his proximity.
Because he came down here and so boldly demanded it.
And, finally, because even though he wants a piece of my ass, all Stark’s getting today is a piece of my mind.
11
Stark takes my arm and leads me back toward the elevator bank. I’m hyperaware of his touch, but I try to ignore it and hold on to my irritation.
We stop in front of an elevator next to the one I rode up in with the team. The doors open the moment Stark inserts his identification card into a slot so well camouflaged it looks like part of the granite. We step onto the elevator and I jerk my arm free. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demand.
“Hold on,” Stark says as the doors close behind us.
“No, I’m not holding on. You don’t get to just snap your fingers and expect me to—” The ground bursts upward, and I stumble forward, clutching at Stark as I try to steady myself. He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me closer. My pulse kicks into overdrive, and I know damn well it’s not from the velocity of our ascent.
“I meant hold on to something,” he says. “This is my private elevator. It goes straight to the penthouse, and it goes there quickly.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly. My irritation is fading, diluted by the intense power charging the air between us. It’s magnetic … and like a magnet it has the power to erase. Thoughts. Memories. Emotions.
Hold on a minute.…
I press my palms flat against his chest and use him as leverage to push myself back up. When I’m righted, I move my hands from his chest to the elevator’s interior railing. I hold it tight, just in case.
“He knows,” I say, firmly and without further explanation. “Dammit, Stark, you can’t just waltz into the lobby and pluck me up like a flower.”
“Speaking of, I hope you liked the flowers. I had considered something more exotic, but you remind me of daisies and wildflowers.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What?” His brows lift in mocking amusement. “Ms. Fairchild, I’m surprised. Such a well-bred young lady, and you don’t even say a simple thank-you?”
“Thank you,” I say coldly.
“And for the record, I didn’t pluck you. Though I would be more than happy to remedy that oversight anytime you wish.”
I fight to keep my ire up even though he has begun to amuse me. “I don’t appreciate being treated like a puppy who’s been told to heel,” I snap.
Some of the amusement fades from his eyes. “Is that what you think?”
“I—” Shit. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. I don’t like being ordered around, but at the same time, Stark isn’t my mother, and maybe I’m not being fair. “No,” I say. Then, “I don’t know. But dammit, Damien,” I continue, as I try to shift myself back to solid ground, “think about how it looks. He knows.”
“So you said. Carl, you mean? And what exactly does your boss know? I assure you that I didn’t tell him anything.” He eyes me, the amber one alight with amusement, the dark one firm and steady. “Did you say something?”
“Don’t be obtuse,” I say. “He knows that something is going on between us.”
“I’m very glad to hear you say that something is.”
“Went,” I correct quickly. “That something went on between us.”
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.
I stare back, just as coolly. “Then he doesn’t need to see me, does he?” I stand firm, daring Carl to send me up there. He did it once at the party. If he does it again in the lobby of Stark’s building, it really isn’t going to be pretty.
After a moment, he nods. “Come on. Champagne’s waiting.”
Joe has been eyeing us warily, and now that we’re moving toward the exit, he becomes animated. “I’m going to need to call Mr. Stark’s office,” he says. “He’s expecting you upstairs.”
“It’s all right, Joe.”
I recognize the voice before I see the man—it’s Stark, of course, and he emerges from the elevator bank looking calm and polished. Just seeing him sends a jolt of awareness through me. It’s like the fight or flight response. With Stark, I think it’s a little bit of both.
He passes by the security desk and shakes hands with my good buddy Joe and the second guard before continuing on toward me and Carl and the boys.
“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, my name sounding soft and decadent on his lips. “My decorator sent over some portfolio pages from local artists. I was hoping to get your opinion on a few of the pieces.”
“You didn’t find something you liked last night?” Carl asks.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Stark answers, his eyes on me. “But I’m still not satisfied.”
Fortunately, Carl is looking at Stark. Otherwise, he might notice that my face has undoubtedly turned a dozen shades of red.
“I apologize for the short notice—you probably have a team meeting planned?—but I’d like to get this matter put to bed.”
My mouth goes dry at his choice of words.
“No plans,” Carl lies, waving his hand casually. “It’s Saturday. I was just about to wish everyone a good weekend and congratulate them on a job well done.”
“Then you don’t mind if I steal Ms. Fairchild again.” He takes a step closer to me, and as is always the case with Damien Stark, I can feel the effect of him in the air between us.
“Not at all,” Carl says. “I’m sure she’ll be very helpful.” The last is said with a tone that I really don’t appreciate, but since I’m going to accept Stark’s invitation and not return with my co-workers, I can’t really complain.
Yes, despite my earlier resolve I’m going up to the penthouse with Stark.
Why? Because of the way the air has fired between us.
Because of the way my flesh is tingling merely from his proximity.
Because he came down here and so boldly demanded it.
And, finally, because even though he wants a piece of my ass, all Stark’s getting today is a piece of my mind.
11
Stark takes my arm and leads me back toward the elevator bank. I’m hyperaware of his touch, but I try to ignore it and hold on to my irritation.
We stop in front of an elevator next to the one I rode up in with the team. The doors open the moment Stark inserts his identification card into a slot so well camouflaged it looks like part of the granite. We step onto the elevator and I jerk my arm free. “What do you think you’re doing?” I demand.
“Hold on,” Stark says as the doors close behind us.
“No, I’m not holding on. You don’t get to just snap your fingers and expect me to—” The ground bursts upward, and I stumble forward, clutching at Stark as I try to steady myself. He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me closer. My pulse kicks into overdrive, and I know damn well it’s not from the velocity of our ascent.
“I meant hold on to something,” he says. “This is my private elevator. It goes straight to the penthouse, and it goes there quickly.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly. My irritation is fading, diluted by the intense power charging the air between us. It’s magnetic … and like a magnet it has the power to erase. Thoughts. Memories. Emotions.
Hold on a minute.…
I press my palms flat against his chest and use him as leverage to push myself back up. When I’m righted, I move my hands from his chest to the elevator’s interior railing. I hold it tight, just in case.
“He knows,” I say, firmly and without further explanation. “Dammit, Stark, you can’t just waltz into the lobby and pluck me up like a flower.”
“Speaking of, I hope you liked the flowers. I had considered something more exotic, but you remind me of daisies and wildflowers.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What?” His brows lift in mocking amusement. “Ms. Fairchild, I’m surprised. Such a well-bred young lady, and you don’t even say a simple thank-you?”
“Thank you,” I say coldly.
“And for the record, I didn’t pluck you. Though I would be more than happy to remedy that oversight anytime you wish.”
I fight to keep my ire up even though he has begun to amuse me. “I don’t appreciate being treated like a puppy who’s been told to heel,” I snap.
Some of the amusement fades from his eyes. “Is that what you think?”
“I—” Shit. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. I don’t like being ordered around, but at the same time, Stark isn’t my mother, and maybe I’m not being fair. “No,” I say. Then, “I don’t know. But dammit, Damien,” I continue, as I try to shift myself back to solid ground, “think about how it looks. He knows.”
“So you said. Carl, you mean? And what exactly does your boss know? I assure you that I didn’t tell him anything.” He eyes me, the amber one alight with amusement, the dark one firm and steady. “Did you say something?”
“Don’t be obtuse,” I say. “He knows that something is going on between us.”
“I’m very glad to hear you say that something is.”
“Went,” I correct quickly. “That something went on between us.”
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.
